GOBLINS GALORE

by Norsebard

Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com

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DISCLAIMERS:

This humor-horror mashup is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.

The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.

All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.

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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:

 

Written: For the 2020 Royal Academy of Bards' Halloween Invitational.

Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski were introduced in the short story Silent Invasion in the anthology Book Of Chills, Volume 2. They returned in Forever We Must Travel and They Came From The Desert that were written for the 2017 and 2019 Royal Academy of Bards Halloween Specials respectively, and then in the Independence Day special Home Of The Plum Unlucky — all stories are available at the Academy's website.

- Thank you very much for your help, Phineas Redux :D

As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D

Description: Things of unknown origin shouldn't be messed with - especially not on Halloween. When Wynne Donohue finds an innocuous-looking wooden box in an abandoned mining town, she plans to use it as the perfect Christmas gift for Deputy Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. The first calamity occurs before she even gets home, but that's nothing compared to the full-scale disaster that takes place when the lid is opened. Soon, the desert town of Goldsboro is once again the center of a titanic struggle between the beleaguered residents and beings from beyond our realm…

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GOBLINS GALORE

Part 1 - Saturday, October 24th.

As the hands of time moved around to ten past nine, PM, the Main Street that cut through the quiet desert town of Goldsboro, Nevada awoke from its evening slumber and came alive once more. The thirty or so wrestling fans who exited the new movie theater all seemed to have a merry time imitating the various actions they had seen on the silver screen.

In addition to the regular offering of premiere films on the weekends and old favorites on weekdays, the owners of the movie theater had made deals with all the major pay-per-view companies and were thus able to offer the biggest events in professional sports and various performing arts - even opera - on their wall-sized screen.

Unless it was a live transmission of a Country & Western concert, the people who went out to their trucks with a firm grip around the waists of their dates would most likely not be back for any kind of singing, but most had already bought tickets for the following weekend's high-quality double-header: Four horror movies in a row on Halloween that would finish just past midnight, and four John Wayne classics in a row on November 1st from noon until eight o'clock.

Wynne Donohue stood on the sidewalk across the street from the movie theater. Leaning against a broom, she cast a wistful glance at the happy folks who began to drive away. Her finances were at an all-time low so she could only dream of going to see a picture show, a wrestling event or Sunday's big tractor pulling extravaganza out at Thunder Park Raceway.

As always, the thirty-nine-year-old wore an outfit matching her self-proclaimed status of The Last Original Cowpoke: neatly decorated cowboy boots, heavily faded straight-cut jeans, a white T-shirt advertising H.E. Fenwyck's line of products, a wool-lined denim jacket, sturdy sheepskin work gloves and finally a low-crowned, somewhat greasy and definitely well-worn cowboy hat.

All that pale-blue denim fit her pale-blue eyes and shoulder-length dark hair perfectly, and gave the world the impression that she was a real traditional, unpolished, uncomplicated, salt-of-the-earth cowpoke with plenty of swagger and rural ruggedness. She was, at least to a certain extent - that she was scared witless of large animals like horses or cattle was another story entirely.

As Main Street fell quiet once more, Wynne let out a long sigh before she turned around and shuffled back into her new workplace: Otto Kulick, jr.'s Bang-N-Beatin' Body Shop. A light box above the rolling shutters proclaimed We Service All US Cars & Trucks, Vintage And Modern!

The harsh words of her former employer Moira MacKay still rang in her ears as she shuffled across the concrete deck of the quiet body shop to get to the crew room at the back. 'Wynne,' Moira had said, 'you've drank more beers from my fridge than you've sold!  We agreed you could take one or two… not ten or twenty!  That's not gonna fly, you hear me?  Either you shape up in a Goddamned hurry, or you're outta here in an even more Goddamned hurry!  What'll it be?'

Unable to come up with any kind of verbal answer that would appease the temperamental owner of the popular hang-out, Wynne had simply taken off the apron she needed to protect her clothing from the inevitable droplets of sizzling grease and had walked out of Moira's Bar & Grill. It had been the best job she'd had for years, not least because of the more-or-less unlimited supply of H.E. Fenwyck's finest brew, but with the mood having already turned sour, there was no need to outstay her welcome.

Moira's had been her favorite haunt in all of Goldsboro, but she hadn't been back there since the fiasco immediately prior to the Independence Day festivities. Instead, she had frequented the town's rat hole - better known as Derrike Iverson's bar - for her daily intake of her beloved golden brew, but the vile stench of stale beer, week-old sweat and fresh urine from the open toilet out back meant she could only stand it in small doses.

Two age-long months had gone by where she had done nothing but work on her truck and descend into a permanent state of cabin fever; then she had heard about the vacancy at the Bang-N-Beatin' Body Shop. She had applied and got the job, and since then, she had swept the concrete deck an astounding ninety-eight times. What she would get for her one-hundredth tour with the broom, she wasn't sure. One thing it wouldn't be was a six-pack of beer. A large sign that had literally been hammered into the wall said No Beer Or Alcohol Of Any Kind Allowed Here!

Otto Kulick, jr., who also owned the Gas 'n Go! independent gas station up in the hills where Wynne had already worked as a night attendant, had turned religious lately and had banned all stimulants that were stronger than easy cider. His newfound status among the Righteous Few of the Virgin Tower religious organization was also visible in the crew room at the back of the shop: a large crucifix and several framed pictures displaying Bible quotes had been put up on the walls instead of the stock car posters and the calendar featuring womenfolk of the underdressed kind that had been there forever and a day.

Wynne stopped in the door to the crew room and let out another sigh. The couch, the old armchair, the coffee table and the small color TV that could only pick up grainy static unless the weather played along held no interest for her. Closing the door behind her, she shuffled back into the main service hall itself to give the concrete floor another round of sweeping just to show old man Kulick that she deserved every cent she could squeeze out of him. Chances were slim to none that the big boss would ever swing by while she was sweeping, but it might happen some day.

The body shop was equipped with three grease pits, two pneumatic lifts and a small array of fabrication machinery used for various parts that were often dented or crumpled, like fenders and bumpers. Business was going fairly well: two of the three pits were occupied by trucks in various state of disrepair, and the youngest member of the Kulick clan - nicknamed Otto the Third - had his personal classic Corvette up on one of the lifts for a regular service.

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Twenty minutes later, she was all done and ready to close up for the night. A part of her was proud over the fact that her immediate boss Otto the Third had given her the important task of closing up, but the sense of pride always faded when she realized it was because he was too lazy to drive back to town each night to do it himself. Worse, not a single soul had been by with a car-related problem in the entire time she had worked the late-shift, so it was all just a waste of everyone's efforts. Goldsboro was dead as a doorknob after four in the afternoon on an average day - there weren't many who didn't know that - and that aspect hadn't changed just because Otto the Third thought the body shop should be open until nine-thirty.

'Hey, Wynne, ya old rascal!  Ya workin' tonight?' a male voice said from somewhere out front.

Recognizing the voice as belonging to her friend Ernest 'Ernie' Bradberry, Wynne broke out in a grin, threw away the broom for good and hurried through the hall to get out onto the sidewalk once more. "Howdy Ernie, ya old sombitch!  Wotcha been doin' on this he' oh-so-fihne day?" she said once she had made it out there. As she spoke, she reached out to give her trailer park neighbor a proper handshake.

Ernie was in his early forties and the proud owner of a mullet, an impressive pair of sideburns and a drooping mustache. Perhaps just a touch overweight, he was a friendly fellow with smiling eyes and a mouth that nearly always carried a grin or a smile of some kind.

To match his reputation as Goldsboro's best jack-of-all-trades, he wore his regular working clothes even that late in the day: sturdy boots, faded blue-jeans, a hunting vest over a long-sleeved flannel shirt and finally a black Built Ford Tough baseball cap that he had bought as a replacement for the similar one he had lost out in the desert during the zombie cannibal invasion the year before. In order to shake Wynne's hand, he put down a metal tool box that was also home to his work gloves.

"Aw, little o' this, little o' that. I was just over at Mrs. Peabody's fixin' a backed-up toilet," Ernie said and took a long swig from a can of H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lager that he had put into a brown paper bag so he wouldn't break any of the town's countless laws against drinking in public. "Wasn't much, but it paid a few dollars that I traded for this li'l fella right here. And you?" he continued, noticing the glum look upon his friend's face.

The sight of the beer made Wynne let out a deep sigh and lick her lips. "Well," she said as she reluctantly tore her eyes away from the paper bag to look at Ernie's face and not his beer, "I swept the floor an' did a li'l housecleanin'. Picked up a couple-a stray nuts an' bolts, ya know. Put a wrench back on the proper shelf. All kinds-a excitin' stuff, yessirree."

"Wow, I'd really worry 'bout havin' a coronary if I were you…"

"No shit, Ernie… one way or the othah," Wynne said and shuffled around on the spot.

A truck with a hole in the exhaust drove by the two old friends - it sounded like a flatulating elephant. Wynne tried to catch the license plate to get some business for the shop, but she only had time to see the Keep The Faith! Trump 4 2020 bumper sticker.

"I wish you'd come back to Moira's, Wynne… the place been so quiet without ya and your dogs," Ernie said sincerely. "The pool table ain't hardly been used, and the new burger-flipper don't know jack about flippin' burgers!  That fool won't last out the month… I'll betcha ten bucks your old job's gonna be waitin' for ya before long."

Wynne shrugged and rearranged her cowboy hat a couple of times. There was nothing she'd like more than to go back to the Bar & Grill, but some things and places just shouldn't be revisited. "That's outta mah hands, Ernie. You know Moira. She out-stubborns a whole pack o' mules."

"True," Ernie said and took another swig of the beer.

Once again, Wynne had to force herself to look back up at her friend's face. "Naw, I kinda like it he'. Kinda. I wish mah boss would lemme have my dawgs with me, tho'. I miss Blackie an' Goldie an' I know they be gettin' real frustrated out in that there trailah. But Mista Kulick ain't too hot 'bout them dawggies on these he' premises. I s'pose it could be kinda dain-gerous for 'em with them there open grease pits an' all them there sparks flyin' around at times from them there metal grindahs an' all…"

"Yeah. Too bad, though. They'd add so much life to the place."

"Ain't that the truth…" Wynne said and looked over her shoulder at the quiet body shop.

"Speakin' of addin' a little life… I know old man Kulick won't allow drinkin' these days after being… haw… born again… but we're out on the sidewalk, and I got a spare can of goodness right here if ya need one," he said and patted the left pocket of his hunting vest - the familiar faint sloshing of beer inside a can followed.

Wynne drew a deep breath and held it while several hundred conflicting emotions blasted through her. Letting the breath out slowly, she shook her head. "Naw. Much obliged, Ernie, but naw. I can't. I promised mah sweet, li'l De-per-ty Mandy I'd lay off them there brewskies. At least fer a while. She done gave me a stern kinda lecture on that there subject so I know she meant it."

"I hear ya. Don't want no trouble in paradise if we can help it."

"Lawrdie, no."

"Well, anyhows… it was nice talkin' to ya, Wynne. See ya around town, yeah?" Ernie said and took off his baseball cap to offer the tall woman a real gentlemen-like parting salute. Once the black cap was back on his mullet, he grabbed his tool box and began to shuffle off down Main Street to get to his truck.

"See ya tomorra, Ernie… get home safely, ya hear?"

"You betcha!"

As Wynne moved back to the edge of the concrete deck to resume closing up for the night, she happened to look across Main Street where she spotted a familiar figure observing her. Compact but athletic and powerful, the figure was dressed in a dark-brown polyester uniform and wearing a round Mountie hat.

The two people gazed at each other for a few, long moments before Wynne took off her cowboy hat and waved it high in the air. The figure across the street mirrored the gesture before returning to the regular evening patrol of the quiet streets of Goldsboro.

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After Wynne had turned off the strip lights in the main hall and had activated the alarm system, she rolled down the shutters and secured the four padlocks that held everything in place. She gave the large door a little yank to make sure it held; it did, so she turned around and shuffled over to the alley next to the Bang-N-Beatin' Body Shop.

Moving past the large Ford F700 medium-duty wrecker truck that was parked at the mouth of the alley - so it could get out unhindered whenever someone needed assistance - she went back to her own 1991-vintage Chevrolet K10 truck, got in, said a little prayer, twisted the ignition key, breathed a sigh of relief, and finally drove home. She was a day older and a few dollars richer, but the little needle on her internal gauge labeled Enthusiasm had moved down another notch compared to the day before.

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With the evening patrol over and done with for another day, the forty-year-old Mandy Jalinski returned to the building on Main Street housing the Goldsboro Sheriff's Office. For a change, her shift was coming to an early end as she didn't have babysitting duties in the holding cells in the adjacent building. The cells were empty after a quiet couple of days where nobody had committed any crimes or misdemeanors to speak of other than the all too common offense of urinating in public - the one-hundred dollar fine the perpetrators received if caught wet-handed would stop all but the most needing.

As the bells above the door let out a short chime to signal her arrival back at the base, Mandy took off her Mountie hat and ran a hand through her short, blond hair. Nothing had changed while she had made her evening round: the cracked linoleum floor was still a washed-out brown that had never been in fashion in any decade. The sound-dampening felt tiles in the ceiling were drooping like they had been for years and years, and the walls all carried the regular anti-crime campaign posters and maps over Goldsboro, MacLean County and the surrounding territory. The door to the gun cabinet stood open, but their rifles and shotguns were protected by an additional padlocked metal bar, so it mattered little.

Two metal desks took up space in the office: one that acted as the watch desk, and a second one that had been brought in there for the sole purpose of having something to dump piles of paperwork on.

Taking off her dark-brown winter jacket, Mandy put it on a coat hook on the wall behind the watch desk. She needed to push her own oilskin rain cape aside to have room, but that was soon accomplished. After hanging her Mountie hat on top of the winter jacket, she moved over to the vacant watch desk that was supposed to have been occupied by one of her fellow deputies while she was away.

Though the sheriff had pleaded with the Town Council for an increased budget so he and the deputies could afford to buy nicer, more modern uniforms, Mandy was still stuck with her old fatigues: black ankle boots, dark-brown, high-waisted pants and a long-sleeved shirt held in a paler shade of brown - all polyester, of course. A modest amount of contrast was created by the shoulder straps, the flaps on the breast pockets and the regulatory necktie that were all held in the same shade of dark-brown as the pants. She wore a shiny bar displaying her surname on the right-hand side of her chest while the opposite side was occupied by a sewn-on patch that showed the traditional five-point star representing the County Sheriff's Department.

Sighing, she sat down on the watch desk's uncomfortable chair and checked the various slips of paper on the desktop. There was nothing she needed to respond to at first glance, but it was hard to tell since someone had used parts of the paperwork to mop up spilled coffee. Her utility belt got in the way, so she reached down and adjusted it so she could sit properly - it carried her nightstick, handcuffs, can of pepper spray, two-way radio, service sidearm and four spare clips all fully loaded with ammunition.

Three doors led off from the main office: one went to the den-like crew quarter where the sheriff and the deputies on duty could cool their jets while they waited for the next drama to arise. The second door went to the shower and toilet facilities at the back, and the third led to the holding cells in the building adjacent to the main office. Unfortunately, the latter door was rusted shut so everyone needed to brave the elements whenever they needed to check up on the prisoners - hence the need for a deputy playing babysitter during the times when the cells were occupied.

Laughter and friendly ribbing poured out from behind the closed door to the crew quarters, so Mandy didn't need to guess where her fellow deputies had relocated to. She was no longer the only female deputy in the State - she had never thought she would see the day - but MacLean County, where Goldsboro was the second-largest town after Barton City, was still a male domain save for her.

When the old-fashioned telephone on the desk began to ring, she returned to the present and reached for the receiver. "Good evening, this is the Goldsboro Sheriff's Office. Deputy Jalinski speaking. How may we help you?"

'Hello, Deputy,' an elderly male voice said at the other end of the line, 'I'm Albert Rossmann and I want to report some strange lights out here in the desert. They look like they might come from somewhere near Silver Creek… you know, the old mining town. But it's supposed to be abandoned, so…'

"I see, Sir. Go on," Mandy said as she took a notepad and began to jot down the information.

'Well… that's pretty much it, actually.'

"What do the lights look like, Sir?  Could they be flames from a downed airplane?" Mandy said as she finished writing down what Albert Rossmann had told her. Leaning against the hard backrest, she couldn't help but think back to the hair-raising situation involving UFOs and aliens from outer space that she and Wynne had found themselves in several years earlier - that horrible mess had started when Wynne had reported seeing strange lights deep into the foreboding desert. The only good thing that had come out of it was getting to know the friendly cowpoke.

'Oh… no, I don't think so,' Albert Rossmann continued. 'It's more like a campfire. A very large campfire… maybe a bonfire of some kind, I can't say.'

"Very well, Sir. We'll investigate the incident. Thank you for alerting us."

'You're very welcome, Deputy Labinski… goodbye."

"Jalin-" Mandy started to say, but the person at the other end had already hung up before she could pronounce her surname. Grunting, she put down the receiver and made a few final notes and observations on the notepad. The page was quickly torn off before she got up and strode over to the door that led to the crew quarters.

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Another grunt followed when she clapped eyes on her colleagues who were sitting around a table engaged in that most ancient of pastimes: playing poker. Reams of foul-smelling, pale-gray cigarette smoke billowed around under the ceiling and in the cones of light from the three lamps that lit up the room. Several crushed soda cans littered the floor, and several more stood on a small sideboard ready to be cracked open whenever the situation called for it.

In their late-twenties - and thus full of youthful spunk and shortsightedness - Rodolfo Gonzalez, Barry Simms and Thomas 'Tom Thumb' Kincaid had taken full advantage of the absence of Sheriff Artie Rains to get the cards out, and the pile of spent matches and cigarette butts in the ashtray proved they had been doing it ever since Mandy had gone out on patrol an hour and a half earlier.

She observed the situation for a moment or two before she cleared her throat in the hope of catching the attention of at least one of the poker players. With the sheriff not there, she had seniority over the other deputies but it was obvious they didn't put too much weight on that fact. "Guys, listen up… did Sheriff Rains say anything about coming back tonight?"

"Nope," Barry Simms said over his shoulder while he received another couple of cards from Tom Thumb who was the round's designated dealer. He broke out in a hacking, rattling cough that sounded horrendously unhealthy; even so, he would never let it stop his three-packs-a-day smoking habit.

"Where did he go?" Mandy said, putting her hands on her utility belt.

"Home."

"And?"

"And nothing. He went home," Barry continued. His home-rolled cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth as he spoke; it unsettled the tip of ash that fell onto the floor next to his chair. He briefly glanced at his female colleague before his eyes zipped back to the game, his hand of cards and the pile of one-dollar bills in the center of the round table.

Mandy nodded a couple of times in the hope that one of her fellow deputies could spare her another second of their precious time. They couldn't as the poker game seemed to enter a high-tension phase. "Very well. In case anyone is interested, we got a call. Something about strange lights out near Silver Creek. I'll take one of the Durangos and check it out."

"Okay. You're the senior deputy."

Mandy's jaw was set in stone as she glared at her colleagues. Rodolfo couldn't hold her glare and Barry had to avert his eyes as well, but the perpetually work-shy Thomas Kincaid didn't give a fluttering fig leaf. "Why you even bother to put on your damn uniforms, I'll never know," she growled as she spun around on her heel and strode out of the smoke-filled, foul-smelling room.

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Two minutes past ten in the evening, a white-and-gold Dodge Durango SUV roared southbound along the State Route through the desert. With the sun far below the horizon, only the strong headlights and the myriad of LEDs and other types of emergency lights on the light bar and elsewhere could illuminate the darkness. The police vehicle was the only one on the road at that time of the evening, so Mandy had decided not to use the siren.

She continued south on the two-lane blacktop to get to the old ghost town that had been a booming center for mining in the late 1800s. Eight miles out of Goldsboro, she flew past the collection of trailers that she and Wynne called home. She briefly wondered what her sweetheart was doing at that moment in time and if she had seen the emergency lights out on the Route, but soon focused on the driving so she wouldn't have an accident.

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Another four miles of high-speed driving later, a sudden thump followed by a series of vicious slaps, boings, clang-clang-clangs, rattles and finally a loud, evil hiss spelled the end of the Dodge Durango. Not a moment later, a geyser of boiling water spewed out from underneath the hood and ended up all over the windscreen.

"Sonovabitch!" Mandy shouted as she had to activate the wipers to see where she was going. The police SUV's forward motion only lasted for a few moments after the incident; the power steering went out first which made the large vehicle difficult to control - then the engine died altogether which rendered the power-assisted brakes inoperable. The windshield wipers stopped in a useless position halfway up and halfway down, but it mattered less than it might have as the speed had been reduced to only a few miles per hour by then.

No power meant no lights, so the light bar and the countless LEDs switched off on their own accord. It left the Durango - and Mandy - stranded in the middle of nowhere in pitch-black conditions. The familiar smells of warm metal and fried electronics trickled into the vehicle and offered strong hints as to the nature of the calamity.

The first minute went by in aggravated silence. Even the infernal hissing from somewhere out front eventually fizzled out and became a poor imitation of the perpetual winds that roamed the wide-open desert plains during the nights.

Sighing, Mandy pulled the handle to open the hood. Though she had a pretty good idea what had happened, she needed to make sure. After climbing down from the tall SUV, she grabbed a powerful flashlight from the rear compartment and strode back around the large vehicle. She had to step up on the left-front tire to have enough reach to fully open the hood, but it was an easy task and it didn't take long for her to push it up to its upper stop.

A single flashlight-assisted glance into the engine compartment confirmed her suspicions: the main radiator hose had come loose and had fallen into the fan. The violent shredding it had been put through by the eight blades on the radiator fan had sent water everywhere. The battery connections, the distributor and the plastic boxes housing the vital electronics were all literally soaked to the core which would obviously explain the sudden lack of power. "Perfect. Just perfect," she mumbled as she hopped off the tire and turned her back to the dead vehicle.

A quick glance at her surroundings proved she was the only one present for miles and miles in every direction. The stars were out in force all along the black velvet sky above her, but that wouldn't help her get anywhere - and she was in no mood for any kind of romantic notions.

With the power gone, the radio would be dead as well, but at least she had her trusty personal smartphone with her. Sheriff Rains had explicitly banned his deputies from taking their personal phones to work so they wouldn't waste time playing games, but it was Goldsboro's worst kept secret that everyone continued to have their telephone with them wherever they went. The reason was simple: anyone who owned a scanner could eavesdrop on the deputies on the regular police frequencies, but the conversations would remain private if their own phones were used.

There were only ten miles to the repeater tower near the trailer park so Mandy knew the signal would be strong. The number to the landline telephone on the watch desk in the Sheriff's Office was soon found in the registry, but nothing much happened even after the fifth try.

Grumbling out loud about the severe lack of respect for the important job among a certain group of people wearing identical uniforms to her own, her next means of seeking help was a familiar number that was soon selected.

'Howdy, mah sweet li'l De-per-ty!' Wynne's dulcet tones said at the other end of the connection. Those tones were soon joined by frantic, happy barking and woof-woof-woof'ing from their two dogs. 'I guess ya jus' can't live without hearin' me breathin' into yer ear, huh?'

"Something like that," Mandy said with a grin that soon faded as she walked around to the front of the SUV. Turning on the flashlight, she bent over to cast a light under the vehicle. Water continued to run out of the shredded hose, and a large puddle had already formed on the blacktop. "Listen, I'm in a fix. One of the Durangos broke down and now I'm stuck way the hell out here in no man's land. I'm about four or five miles south of where you are-"

'Lawrdie!  Ya all right?'

"Oh yeah, but I was responding to a call so I need to get a move on. Can you come by and pick me up?"

'Sure Ah can!  Aw, this is excitin'… what kind of call?'

"A concerned citizen saw suspicious lights near Silver Creek and-"

'Lawwww-rdie!  The ghost town!  Jus' like-'

"Don't say it!" Mandy said and broke out in a tired chuckle. Just to be on the safe side, she let the cone of light from the powerful flashlight sweep from left to right in a slow, deliberate fashion intended to reveal any kind of space aliens, trans-dimensional ghosts or zombie cannibals who happened to be hiding out there. When all she saw was an animal that could have been a coyote or a jackrabbit scurrying away, she used the flashlight's strong magnet to attach it to the roof of the SUV.

'Aw, don't worry, De-per-ty Mandy!  I ain't gonn' say nuttin' 'bout that there thing we don't talk about!  Okay… okay, I'm puttin' on mah boots as we speak. One down, one to go- awwww, shit!'

"What?"

'Jus' done remembered somethin'… mah truck ain't got enough gas ta make it all the way out to ya, then onto wherevah y'all need to go, then back to he'-'

"Oh, for cryin' out loud-"

'Naw, naw, tell ya what… don't getcha undies all wadded up 'cos I got an ideah!  I sure do got mahself an ideah… how 'bout I went back ta li'l ol' Goldsborah first an' got that there big-ass wreckah truck an' then drove out to ya in that?  I know that's fully gassed up 'cos I did that mahself yesterday. We could use it to check out them there lights an' stuff an' then we… we… uh… we could hook up the Durangah on the way back. Hows' 'bout them apples right there, De-per-ty Mandy?'

"Do you even know how to operate the crane, Wynne?"

'Well, sorta… kinda… I watched the regular wreckah drivah Tuckah Garfield do it a couple o' times when he brought back them wrecks an' stuff an' it didden look too difficult or nuttin'. I got an inklin' o' which o' them there levahs to pull to make the crane go up an' down. Sorta. Kinda. Aw, it'll be fihne. We're clever gals, ain't we?  We'll work it out. It'll be fihne.'

Mandy pushed back her Mountie hat to scratch her hair. Wynne's suggestion held plenty of potential for turning everything into an even bigger mess than it already was, but it was the best - not to mention only - option she had. "I don't have much of a choice. Okay. But it needs to be P-D-Q, Wynne!  We don't know what's out there… Mr. Rossmann said he reckoned it could be some kind of bonfire. If the folks responsible for it can't contain it, we'll soon have a wildfire on our hands. And that's the last thing we need."

'Oh, I sure do hear ya!  Lawrdie, an' just befo' Halloween, too… okay, that's the second boot on. Me an' them furry gals are all rearin', roarin' an' ready ta hustle back to Goldsborah to get that there wreckah truck… so don'tcha be wanderin' off ta nowhere-land 'cos it ain't gonn' be long befo' we'll be flyin' out to ya!  See ya in a li'l while, De-per-ty Mandy!'

"Bye, Wynne," Mandy said and closed the connection. Despite the bleak situation she found herself in, she couldn't help but laugh at the cheery optimism in her partner's voice. The conversation had had a constant soundtrack of happily woof'ing dogs which proved that Blackie and Goldie were just as excited as Wynne was.

The next item on Mandy's agenda would be less pleasant. Her face fell into a somber mask as she found the sheriff's private number in the registry. Squaring her shoulders, she shuffled around in the cone of the flashlight to get ready for what would undoubtedly be a less charming call than the one she had just finished.

-*-*-*-

A little more than thirty minutes went by before Mandy spotted a new set of strange lights that illuminated the sky above the dark desert. The lights - alternating between bright-amber and pale-blue - flashed on-and-off in a rhythmic pattern that offered a strong hint that it was neither the campfire they were looking for nor another hunter UFO sent to annihilate them for destroying the first one.

"Jeez, Wynne," Mandy said with a chuckle as the source of the night-time light-show came into view. Soon, she could hear the characteristic deep rumble of the wrecker truck's diesel engine as it came barreling south on the State Route. Pulling the flashlight off the roof of the Durango, she waved it left-to-right a couple of times to show where she was stranded - considering the speed Wynne had the wrecker going at, it would need half a mile if not more to come to a full stop.

---

"Wah-hey-hey-a-yep!" Wynne cried out of the open window as the large truck finally came to a rocking halt right in front of the broken-down police SUV.

Their two dogs - the fearless black German Shepherd known as Blackie and the scaredy-cat Golden Retriever Goldie - were right there next to Wynne. Blackie sat on the wide bench seat with her head out of the window in time-honored fashion; Goldie had only dared to put her head on the seat. The rest of her was curled up into a ball of golden fur down in the footwell. It was only when the truck stopped that she dared to hop up onto the seat to have a look around.

The light bar atop the cab continued to flash bright-amber and pale-blue until Wynne reached down and flicked one of the countless switches on the dashboard. "Well, hey there, De-per-ty Mandy!  Lawrdie, I done came as fast as this he' ol' truck would drive. Didya see them there awesome lights on the roof an' all?  Ain't they neat?  I always wanted ta race down the road with them there roof-lights all a-flashin' like in that there wondahful ol' docahmentary Smokey an' The Bandit!"

Chuckling, Mandy stepped up on the running board below the driver's-side door and put her elbows on the windowsill. "It's actually a violation of county and state law for private citizens to use blue emergency lights, Wynne," she said before she leaned in through the window to place a small peck on her partner's cheek.

"Izzat a fact?  Gosh-darn'it, I guess I been a real bad girl, then. Y'all better slap them cuffs on me, De-per-ty, an' tickle me purple with a feather or some such," Wynne said with a naughty grin. "Hop in he' where it's nice an' warm. Me an' them dawggies kept the seat heated for ya," she continued while she adjusted her indispensable cowboy hat.

After Mandy had made herself comfortable between the two dogs and the long arm of her sweetheart - that seemed determined to stroke her polyester-clad thigh - she pulled out her telephone to find the exact coordinates of Silver Creek on her GPS tracker. "We need to go another four miles south, then turn right, then carry on along a wagon trail for two miles and change. The truck is four-wheel drive, right?"

"It's a four-by-six 'cos the rear axle got them there dual wheels, ack-chew-ly," Wynne said as she got the lumbering Ford F700 wrecker truck back up to speed by yanking the long-necked gearstick through the various gates in the transmission. First gear was a super-low only used for starting when towing a vehicle, so she got away from the stranded Durango in second.

"Good. While I waited for you, I called Sheriff Rains-"

The groaning grunt Wynne let out proved exactly what she thought of Goldsboro's sheriff.

"-and, among quite a few other things, he said we should continue out there to see if the campfire was caused by a bunch of long-haired hippie freaks smoking banana peels. His words."

"Smokin' bananas, huh?  I done tried smokin' dried cactus once, but that wus ages ago. Wussen no good, lemme tell ya. Well, I woudden put it past them there space cadets to try bananas. Lawrdie… I can't believe I'm agreein' with anythin' Artie Rains has said. Jumpin' jellybeans, what's the world comin' to?  But anyways…"

"Space cadets?"

"Yeh, like in that there song… the old Country song from the seventies… dang-blasted, I can't remember the title or nuttin'… in the song, them hippies came in one o' them there purple school buses an' they sold astrological post cards or some such an' had a buncha dawggies with 'em… hmmm-hmmm-hmmm-mmm… mmm-mmm-mmm… my hummin' ain't ringin' no bells fer ya?"

"Well, that would be a 'no,' " Mandy said and let out a chuckle.

"Nevah mind. All right, De-per-ty Mandy. Let's head inta that there ol' desert fer a li'l hippie chase," Wynne said as she reached down to flick the switch controlling the roof lights back to the 'on' position.

She paused as she recalled Mandy's recent words about breaking several laws, but a "Oh, go on, then," from the deputy sheriff in question made Wynne break out in a wide grin and activate the proper switch - soon, the wrecker truck could be seen from the International Space Station should it happen to fly over the desert at the right moment.

---

"Holy shit, we really got them weird lights out he'!  Lookie there, De-per-ty!" Wynne croaked as she pointed through the windshield at a flickering orange light in the middle distance.

The ancient wagon trail they had turned onto was rutty and uneven beyond belief, so the large vehicle was given a strong shaking that made all the metal chains in the back rattle and sing like a pack of howling, vengeful desert ghosts. The suspension creaked, the diesel engine churned on producing plenty of black smoke, Goldie whimpered and Wynne let out the occasional curse when the rough ride made her knees smack into the steering column or the center console.

"Are you sure they're not reflections of our own lights?" Mandy said dryly as she reached over to the dashboard to flick the same switch Wynne had used earlier. Blackie uttered a puzzled, but not disinterested, woof? when the lights in the distance continued even after the Ford F700's own light-show had been turned off - Goldie just whimpered a little more.

Mandy and Wynne shared a brief look. It seemed their near-legendary rotten luck was about to strike once more. "Huh. All right," Mandy continued as she reached down to check that her sidearm was in place and ready to use in case of trouble. "Wynne, this is police business, so when we get to it… whatever it is… I want you and Goldie to stay well back. You hear me?"

"Yes, Ma'am, De-per-ty Mandy, Ma'am!  Ya ain't gonn' get no complainin' outta me, no, Ma'am!" Wynne said as the wrecker truck fell down into, and subsequently climbed out of, a particularly impressive rut.

---

The first dilapidated buildings of Silver Creek were soon caught by the truck's round headlights. Back in 1888, a group of prospectors had found a vein they hoped would be a mother lode. While not quite on that level, the vein was rich enough to attract the attention of miners from several States, and a mining camp soon blossomed around the initial excavation point.

Within a few months, the camp turned into a proper frontier town equipped with all the pre-requisite functions like livery stables, several saloons, eateries and bordellos - but no law to speak of. The high concentration of rock-tough, stubborn miners made the town just as rowdy as all the other mining communities scattered throughout the West, and drunken, violent brawls were commonplace.

The lode dried up in the late 1890s, but Silver Creek continued to exist on maps until 1904 where the last miner left with nothing but callused hands and empty pockets. A few attempts had been made over the decades to turn it into an open-air museum or even an Old West theme park, but the plans had always come to a grinding halt due to the town's remoteness and lack of historical significance - since nobody was around to tear down the buildings, they remained where they stood until Mother Nature took care of business by reclaiming the wooden houses and the adobe huts into the great cycle of life.

Wynne drove the wrecker truck onto the final part of the wagon trail and into what had been Silver Creek's Main Street once upon a time. As they went past all the old, semi-collapsed buildings, she let out a long grunt at the sight of what the headlights cast their strong cones of light on.

Instead of a screaming pack of frightening ghosts of long-dead miners back for unfinished business, what appeared to be a brand-new Volkswagen Minibus was parked in the middle of Main Street. A large fire had been created at a safe distance from the Minibus, and a group of well-dressed young people sat around the flickering flames roasting twist-bread and marshmallows while drinking from cans that appeared to contain mineral water and diet soft drinks rather than beer or hard liquor.

"Well, there, De-per-ty Mandy…" Wynne said as she brought the truck to a halt. At the fire, a young, bearded fellow rose and dusted off the seat of his pants before he waved a greeting at the two women. "I don't wantcha get the wrong kinda impression o' me 'cos, Lawrdie, I sure ain't no heroine or nuttin', but this he' deal is perdy much the exact opposite o' what I wus expectin' ta find out he'. Yuh… this is theee perfect example o' that there fancy word I always get wrong… haw, what wus it-"

"Anticlimax. Anyway, stay here while I check them out," Mandy said as she opened the door and climbed down from the wrecker truck. Blackie let out an annoyed woof! at being denied a little chomping on ghosts, ghouls or other types of otherworldly creatures. Never one to sit still whenever there was a reason to move, she hopped down from the truck and ran around in a circle a couple of times to show how ready she was to spring into action.

Wynne turned off the churning diesel engine as she watched Mandy and Blackie walk over to the fire and the people sitting there. Reaching down to pat Goldie's golden fur, she chewed on her cheek like she was still trying to rack her mind to find the right word. "Anticlimax?  Naw, that wussen it… or mebbe it wus… ah, I dunno. Don't matter none anyhows," she mumbled while she looked out of the driver's side window at one of the old buildings.

They had come to a halt in front of one of Silver Creek's saloons: Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse. Mother Nature had been kind to Big Bill in that only parts of the roof had collapsed. All four walls continued to stand as did the covered porch in front of the entrance. The metal hinges holding the traditional swinging doors had long since rusted through which had made the two doors fall to either side - one was on the sidewalk and the other was just inside the outer wall.

"Hey, Goldie, how 'bout me an' you went on a li'l look-see-tour now we're he'?  Whaddaya say, girl?  C'mon, it'll be fun!" Wynne said as she reached down to rub Goldie's golden fur. The easily spooked Golden Retriever let out a constant stream of whimpers, and she shook her head repeatedly. "Awww, Goldie… c'mon… Lawrdie, don't be such a dang scaredy-dawg!  No?"

When Goldie uttered a short but emphatic woof! that could only mean "No!", Wynne chuckled and opened the driver's side door. She waited for a moment to cast a brief glance at Mandy who was still talking to the people at the fire. It didn't seem dramatic at all, so Wynne jumped down from the truck and strolled across the old Main Street to get to Big Bill's.

---

The interior of the saloon was far cruder than the image made popular by the big Hollywood productions. The Whisky Warehouse had none of the Western clichés like an upright piano, round tables used for the inevitable games of poker, or even a polished counter in front of a large mirror. In their stead, the serving stand consisted of three planks hammered together and put across a pair of wooden crates. Almost nothing of the furniture had been able to withstand the test of time, but a mismatched collection of rickety chairs and uneven tables had been shoved into the far corner of the main room.

The floorboards creaked dangerously as Wynne's hard-heeled cowboy boots crossed over them during her exploration. One board in particular didn't like to be treated that way after more than a century of peace and quiet, so it gave up the ghost the moment she stepped on it.

"Whaddahell?!  Owch!" Wynne cried as her left leg sunk in halfway up to her knee. The floorboard she had tried to step on disintegrated into a pile of wood chips which left sharp edges everywhere on the neighboring boards. "Lawrdie!" she exclaimed as she felt her jeans get stuck on the jagged edges. After taking off her stylish - and expensive - sheepskin gloves so they would be safe, she reached down and began to literally chip away the worst of the offending splinters so she could pull her leg out without suffering damage to either her skin or her beloved jeans.

With the floorboards being rotten, the task was easier than she had dreaded. After a few moments of frantic scratching, bashing, thumping and clawing with her strong hands and fingers, she was able to get her boot back up from the pitch-black depths it had plummeted to, and she was soon standing up straight once more.

"Aw dag-nabbit, even when there ain't nuttin' spooky goin' on, I still find me a crock o' shit to step in!  Literally!" she mumbled as she wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her wool-lined denim jacket. Retrieving her smartphone from her rear pocket, she turned on the flashlight app to get a better look at her surroundings so she could spare her jeans from being torn.

The cone of harsh light that she moved around revealed there was nothing inside Big Bill's that was of any interest to her - nothing except a wooden box resting down in the jagged hole she had created with her boot.

Grunting, she looked out at the truck; Mandy still hadn't come back from her talk with the well-dressed young people. The artifact seemed to call out to her, so she got down on her knees and held up the telephone to get an even better view of the item - or items - down there.

The hole wasn't home to rattlesnakes, hairy spiders, scorpions or other kinds of unwanted creatures, so she leaned forward and began to rummage around in the hole to get a grip on the unexpected find. It was heavier than it appeared at first glance, so she needed both hands on it as she pulled it out of the hold and onto the floor. When the box had finally been liberated from its dark grave, she leaned back on her thighs and blew a century's worth of dust off the lid.

Five inches tall and roughly twelve by fifteen inches in size, the box was made of a dark hard-wood of some kind. Every surface including the lid was free of woodworm and in fact appeared brand new. The lid carried several reliefs and two lines of text in a language Wynne couldn't recognize, but regardless of what it said, the craftsmanship was extraordinary.

"Wouldya look at this he' perdy li'l thing…" she mumbled to herself as she turned the box over to see the underside. It didn't rattle when she did so, so there didn't appear to be anything inside despite its weight. The lid was held in place by a small lock, but even though she flipped up the metal catch, she was unable to get the box to open. "Lawrdie… ain't this the purr-fect Christmas gift fer mah sweet, li'l De-per-ty Mandy or what?  Yessirree, this he' thing is dog-gone purr-fect!" she said as she ran her fingers across the reliefs and the lines of text on the lid.

Though Wynne was far from an expert on Old West artifacts, even she could see it had to be valuable, and that meant using brute force to break open the lid would be a big no-no. It needed to be done slowly and carefully with the proper tools and in the proper environment - preferably back home in their trailer under the strong lamp above their eating table. Grinning, she got to her feet, whipped out her expensive sheepskin gloves from her rear pocket and finally strolled back out to the wrecker truck with her prized find under her arm.

Just in time too, because Blackie was soon zipping around her cowboy boots which meant that Mandy would return before long. While Wynne found a few old rags to wrap the wooden box in so Mandy wouldn't notice it, Blackie's demeanor changed like flicking a switch. From one moment to the next, she began to growl from somewhere deep in her throat, and the growling was soon accompanied by an aggressive stance.

Wynne furrowed her brow at the sight of her dog's peculiar behavior. "Whatcha gettin' all riled up for, Blackie?  Trubble?  We got trubble comin'?"

She cast a few concerned glances around the not-exactly-deserted ghost town but couldn't see anything untoward. The surrounding desert seemed quiet as well, and there weren't even any strange blinking lights in the sky that could spell disaster of a ghostly or UFO-related kind. "Y'all got a scent of som'tin, there, girl?  Huh?"

When nothing seemed to happen save for more growling, Wynne shrugged and continued working on wrapping the wooden box. It was soon put into a metal locker attached to the back of the cab where they usually kept additional gloves, rags and other types of cloth used when they needed to protect custom paint jobs.

Wynne had only just climbed behind the Ford's large steering wheel when Mandy and Blackie joined her on the bench seat. The well-trained guard dog was still unhappy about something, but when her two owners didn't seem to pay much attention to her, she let out a few muted woofs and settled down next to Goldie. Soon, the two dogs snuggled up tight to keep each other company now their owners were so oblivious to the dangers.

"Can we go, De-per-ty?"

"Yep," Mandy said as she took off her Mountie hat to run a hand through her short hair.

After the low-revving diesel engine had come to life, Wynne turned the steering wheel around so they could begin their bumpy trek back to the State Route. "Aintcha gonn' tell me what wus happenin' with them there folks?"

"They were just regular tourists. Well-off people from Silicon Valley out to explore what our country looks like beyond what they can see on their computer screens," Mandy said and broke out in a shrug.

"So they wussen smokin' banana peels or nuttin'?"

"No. I gave them a little speech about protecting the wildlife. I think they understood."

"Okie-dokie. Ya know what, tho'?" Wynne said and shot her sweetheart a wide grin. "I sure am glad this ain't Halloween 'cos we all know the kinds of shitty bizzness we always end up in on them there Halloweens. I know we done plenty alreddy, but I'm still waitin' for one o' them there giant Gila Monsters to come outta the nucular testin' area an' attempt ta bite our asses off… or the Beast Wi' Twentah Eyes fer that matter… but other than one o' them there mutant critters, I think we's about done 'em all… naw!  Vampir-"

"Don't. Even. Think. It. Wynne. Don't!" Mandy said in a growl not unlike the one Blackie had used earlier.

"Yes, Ma'am!  Ah ain't gonn' be thinkin' no mo', Ma'am!  Ah be done thinkin'. Y'all got mah word, De-per-ty!" Wynne said while alternatively nodding and shaking her head so hard she needed to hold onto her beloved cowboy hat to stop it from flying off her dark locks.

"Thank you!"

"Aw, yer welcome an' all. Well, since we can't be thinkin' or nuttin', I guess we better be headin' back to that there crapped-out Durangah so we can get it hooked up ta this he' wreckah an' stuff," Wynne continued as the poor road made her, Mandy and their dogs jerk back and forth all over again. "We might even be back home befo' dawn!  Naw, jus' kiddin'… I know what I'm doin'.

Mandy felt a strong need to let out a droll "Uh-huh?" so that's exactly what she did - and it earned her a broad grin in return.

-*-*-*-

Credit needed to be given where credit was due, and Mandy had to admit that Wynne did in fact know what she was doing when it came to operating the crane at the rear of the Ford wrecker truck. In no time flat, a double set of sturdy belts and chains had been attached to the frame underneath the stricken Durango; the other end of the heavy chains were soon wrapped around the fearsome-looking hook on the crane so the front-end of the police vehicle could be lifted off the ground without causing further damage to it.

Whistling out of key while she worked, Wynne moved back to the panel that held all the levers for operating the crane. The correct one was chosen and manipulated, and the Durango was soon three feet off the ground at the front. Now that it had been immobilized for good, she opened the driver's side door to release the parking brake so the rear wheels could roll freely.

The grin she wore reached from ear to ear as she climbed back out and strolled up to the wrecker's cab. Pushing her cowboy hat back from her brow, she put her elbows on the windowsill and offered her sweetheart an even wider grin. "An' that's how y'all do it, there, De-per-ty. Ain't nuttin' to it when ya know whatcha doin'. Am I right or am I right?"

"Oh, you're definitely right," Mandy said and returned the grin.

Goldie had yet to uncoil herself from the golden ball she had rolled herself into down in the footwell, but Blackie stood on the bench seat with her paws up on the small window at the back of the cab. She had never stopped growling since they had left Silver Creek, but it wasn't obvious what she was responding to.

Still grinning, Wynne adjusted her cowboy hat once more to make herself all sexy-like by pushing it down low across her brow - then she noticed Blackie's continued aggressive stance. She took a step back from the wrecker truck and performed a slow turn that enabled her to look in all directions. The late-October night was too dark to see any details beyond the immediate range of their own lights, but it was clear by the lack of headlights penetrating the darkness elsewhere that they were the only ones present on the desolate stretch of the State Route.

"Lawrdie, I sure do hope our li'l Blackie he' ain't comin' down with no dawggie illness or nuttin'," Wynne said as she climbed up behind the Ford's large steering wheel. She grabbed her black German Shepherd and gave her fur the kind of rubbing that always worked wonders, but even that didn't seem to appease the agitated guard dog.

"Yeah… I don't know what's wrong with her," Mandy said and added her own little rubbing of Blackie's fur. "She was just fine when we spoke to the tourists back in Silver Creek, but she started acting strange as soon as we got back to the truck. Did anything happen while we were away?"

Stalling to give herself a chance to come up with a perfectly good explanation or excuse, Wynne hemmed, hawed, picked her teeth and scratched her nose. It would spoil the big surprise if she told Mandy about the wooden box - it was intended to be a Christmas gift, after all - but it certainly didn't feel right to slip her a white lie, either.

The pause soon turned awkward, so she decided to jump into a partial truth. "Well, naw… but I did go inta that there Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse back in Silvah Creek. Ya know, the old saloon?  I didden do nuttin' in there… well, 'cept crash through a rotten floorboard, but that wus jus' a li'l deal. Nuttin' to get this excited 'bout, I woudden ha' thought… an' o' course, Blackie wussen even in there with me, so… whatever. Mebbe she's goin' inta heat or som'tin. It does kinda happen, ya know."

Mandy scrunched up her face and let out a barely audible "Hmmm?" at her partner's uncharacteristically lengthy stream of words. There was perhaps a little more to it than the details that had already been relayed, but she wasn't about to press the issue.

"Y'all be reddy, there, De-per-ty?" Wynne said with a grin that was less cocksure than the ones that had preceded it.

"Fully."

"Okie-dokie. I s'pose I better get that there diesel engine up front a li'l shakin'… an' I better use that there fancy supah-dupah-low gear too, now we're talkin' 'bout it."

Following the plan, Wynne pulled away from the hard shoulder of the State Route in the lowest gear - it was just enough to get rolling with a full load, then she needed to change up through the transmission at once. "Lawrdie, ain't nuttin' to it!" she said with a grin as the speed climbed to a steady and safe forty miles per hour.

---

Three miles further on, a strange, green glow began to emanate from the metal locker on the back of the Ford's cab. The green shine continued to intensify until the locker's panel blew wide open. A split second later, a howling whine was heard from somewhere at the back of the wrecker.

"Whaddahell wus that noise?" Wynne said and peeked in the side mirror at once.

Blackie jumped up and let out a thunderous bark that sounded exactly like she said "I told you so!"  Pressing her paws and her muzzle against the small window, she had a clear view of the green glow on the back of the cab, but she was unable to get her owners to look that way no matter what she tried.

Even while Blackie was watching, the Durango began to wobble - then it jumped the chains and literally gained a mind of its own. Veering hard right, it took off into the desert while still going at forty miles per hour; it soon hit a ditch and rolled over in a cloud of sand, dust and shattered glass.

As the wrecker truck was suddenly liberated from its load, a tremendous jerk rattled it to the core, and Wynne needed to give the large steering wheel a good yanking to keep everything on the straight and narrow. The moment she had the heavy vehicle back under control, she stood on the brakes while letting out a constant stream of low-pitched but most decidedly high-intensity curses.

Once they came to a halt on the hard shoulder, she and Mandy both jumped down and raced back to the crashed Durango. Goldie predictably preferred to stay in the cab, but Blackie followed her owners going flat-out and was able to beat them to the sorry-looking wreck. At the pile of junk, she came to a sand-flying stop and let out a long series of barks and annoyed woofs when she noticed hundreds of shards of glass everywhere.

Wynne ripped off her beloved cowboy hat and threw it onto the dusty desert floor. Struck speechless for once, all she could do was to clutch her head with both hands, bend over and perform a frantic hard-heeled tap-dance on the spot.

"Sonovabitch," Mandy said, and that exclamation covered the situation so well there was no need for further words. As the Durango had rolled over, the roof had caved in and the rear doors had been forced open. The latter was worse than the former because the violent roll had distributed the contents of the cargo compartment all over the desert. Scores of items - including shovels, cages for wild animals, coils of rope, evidence bags, Kevlar vests, waders and traffic control beacons as well as stun guns, rifles, several Mossberg shotguns and the appropriate ammunition for the various weaponry - had been strewn about in a piteous mess.

"This dang-blasted disastah ain't happenin'!  It ain't happenin'!   It jus' ain't happenin'!" Wynne finally cried to the heavens above. "Ah done checked them friggin' belts an' chains!  All of 'em!  Not once!  Not twice!  But three stinkin' times!  There wus nuttin' wrong with 'em!  Nuttin'!  But look at this he' crock o' shit now!"

"Whatever the cause, I need to call it in," Mandy said and retrieved her smartphone from her pants pocket. Before she found Sheriff Rains' number in the registry, she offered her partner a wistful smile. "And so do you. I hope the body shop is properly insured."

"Haw, I bet they is… but I sure ain't," Wynne mumbled before she found her own phone to get it over with. While Mandy called the Sheriff - who shouted at her quite severely using a long line of four-letter words - Wynne rolled through her own registry to find the number for her immediate boss, Otto Kulick the Third.

'Kulick,' a gruff male voice soon said at the other end of the connection.

"Uh, good evenin', Mista Kulick, Sir." As Wynne spoke, she picked up her cowboy hat, thumped it free of sand against her leg and finally mashed it onto her dark locks - then she rubbed her brow several times in the hope it would help her get through the call unscathed. "This he' be Wynne Donohue. I be callin' due to a small hiccup. Naw, it's more of a problem, ack-chew-ly… aw hell, I done made a mess of som'tin, boss."

'What is it this time, Miss Donohue?  Did you break a broom again?' Otto Kulick the Third said in a deceptively calm voice.

Wynne grimaced at she looked back at the thoroughly destroyed Durango. "Naw, no such luck. I wus… uh, I wus called out to a tow job aftah hours so I kinda borrowed that there wreckah truck-"

'You don't have the proper qualifications to use that truck!'

"I know, Mista Kulick, Sir, but it wus an emergency an' all. I wus called out so I hadda use it."

'Wait a minute… are you saying you wrecked my wrecker truck?'

"Ahhhh… not exactly, Mista Kulick, Sir," Wynne said and moved her hat down to cover her eyes. "Aw hell, it wussen mah fault or nuttin'!  Ah kinda lost the vee-hickel Ah had up on the crane, there, kinda… it done fell off an' went inta' ditch an' kinda rolled ovah and-"

'You. What?' Otto the Third said in a voice that held none of the calmness it had done only moments earlier.

"Ah kinda lost the vee-hickel-"

'I heard you the first time!'

"Then why didya ask…"

'Wynne, fer Chrissakes!'

The simple message was delivered in such a booming bark that Wynne needed to hold the telephone away from her ear or risk acute deafness. When it sounded like her boss had calmed down again, she moved it back to pick up the conversation. "It wussen mah fault, boss!  Honest!  That there darn thing just jumped them chains an' took off… them chains wus tight, I guarantee ya they wus!  I ain't never seen nuttin' like it… it just-"

'Whose car was it?'

Wynne began to pace around nervously. A few pebbles lying on the desert floor were given kicks that sent them flying further into the dark desert. Turning her back to the wrecker truck, she missed the fiery, green glow that emanated from the wrapped bundle that was still inside the open locker. Blackie didn't miss it and began to bark her head off all over again, but neither Wynne nor Mandy had time to respond to the guard dog's frantic barking. "Ah… it be one o' them there Durangahs," she said and tried to hit another pebble with the tip of her cowboy boot. Symptomatically, her kick went wide and missed the pebble completely. "Ya know… one o' Sheriff Rains' Durangahs."

'You wrecked an official police vehicle?!'

"Naw, Sir, Mista Kulick, Sir… I didden wreck nuttin', the darn thing jumped them chains-"

'You're fired.'

"-and took off like one o' them there coyotes… huh?  Whassat?"

'I said, you're fired, Wynne. Plain and simple. Like in, don't bother to drive to work tomorrow because you won't be let in.'

"Fired?  You're firin' me?" Wynne croaked. She came to a dead stop; the wide-eyed stare that fell over her face saw nothing of the carnage she was standing close to, or even the green shine that continued to glow from the rear of the wrecker truck's cab.

'Yes, Goddammit!  F. I. R. E. D!  What part of fired don't you understand, you dimwitted- goodbye, Miss Donohue!' Otto Kulick the Third roared before he closed the connection.

Wynne just stood there staring into the darkness like a marble statue that had fallen off a freight train. After a few moments, she switched off her smartphone and slipped it into her jacket pocket. Blackie continued to bark at a frenzied pace and volume, so Wynne turned around and shuffled back to the wrecker truck so see what had gone into her beloved pet. On her way there, she closed and secured the flapping panel on the metal locker without paying attention to anything other than her gloomy state of mind.

Mandy joined Wynne at the truck a minute or so later. The deputy carried two Mossberg pump-action shotguns over her left arm, a hunting rifle over her shoulder on a Nylon carrier strap, and all the boxes of spare shells and cartridges she could hold. After giving Goldie a little nudge to make way, she dumped the items in the footwell on the passenger side. "Okay, that's the guns and the ammo out of the way. The rest can wait. Sheriff Rains will drive out here first thing tomorrow to assess the damage to the Durango. I think it's a write-off so that's going to be a lovely talk- hey, what's wrong with you?"

Wynne's face was still set in stone despite Blackie's attempt to coax a little smile onto it by giving her downcast owner a furious nudging. Wynne shrugged as she returned Blackie's favor by giving the black fur a good rubbing. "Aw, it ain't nuttin'. Mah ass jus' got fired. Ag'in."

"Jeez… Wynne!  It wasn't your fault…"

"It don't matter none whose fault it wus. I got fired," Wynne said and let out a long, slow sigh. She adjusted her cowboy hat a couple of times like the bad news had only just sunk in. "Yet another crock o' shit that got dumped on me. Darn. An' jus' befo' mah one-hundredth anniversary floor-sweepin', too!"

"Huh?"

"Nuttin'. Naw… ain't no sense in wastin' tears ovah that crap job. C'mon, De-per-ty Mandy," Wynne said and climbed up into the cab to get behind the Ford's large steering wheel. "Let's get back ta Goldsborah. I'll betcha got a ton o' that there paperwork an' stuff to fill out, anyhows."

"Oh, thank you for reminding me. Yes, I know what I'll be doing for the next hour or so," Mandy said as she pulled up the Mossberg shotguns so they could avoid any shooting-related incidents.

"So do Ah. As soon as mah butt is planted in mah comfy chair back home, I'mma-gonn' drink mahself into Nevah-Nevah-land courtesy o' mah last six-pack o' brew," Wynne said decisively before she started the wrecker truck's diesel engine.

Mandy grimaced but chose not to make a comment. Goldie let out a whimper in sympathy to her owner's plight, but Blackie continued to growl at something unseen. Twisting around, the black German Shepherd stood up on the bench seat and pressed her paws and her muzzle against the small window at the back of the cab.

Outside, an eerie green shine seemed to follow the Ford wrecker truck as it made its lumbering return to Goldsboro…

-*-*-*-

-*-*-*-

-*-*-*-

Part 2 - A week later: October 31st - Halloween.

It would perhaps be a stretch to call the collection of six trailers just off the State Route a proper trailer park, but that was what the eleven residents called it - they also called it home. The six full-sized trailers had been placed in a random pattern that nevertheless formed a good and safe base for the three pre-teen kids and the eight adults living there.

Wynne's trailer had been the first one at the site with Ernie Bradberry's being the second that had been unloaded there. Located on the edge of the vast, foreboding desert, she continued to have an unrestricted view of the barren plains from her back porch that she had built with her own two hands. That the porch was crooked and uneven was unfortunate but beside the point; it was the permanent home to a parasol, a pair of metal lawn chairs and a round table, and all it took to combat the crookedness was a one-inch block of wood glued to the underside of half of the furniture's legs.

To mark the day, a hand-carved Jack O'Lantern had been placed in one of the chairs. The crooked surface meant the pumpkin tilted to the side, but that only added to its sinister appearance. There were only a few other Halloween decorations put up in the trailer park as most of the residents couldn't be bothered to go through all that hassle for something that was only supposed to be on display for a day or two at the most.

With Mandy working the five-PM-to-two-AM shift the entire week and thus sleeping for a good portion of the day, the unemployed Wynne had spent most of the week nesting under her rusty Chevrolet truck fixing this, that and the other - even things that weren't broken yet.

It had taken her exactly two days to go stir-crazy all over again, so she had bought every newspaper she could afford to scan the pages and columns containing job offers. Nothing had been found yet, and a sinking feeling inside her whispered in her ear that the situation was even worse than the last time she had been kicking her heels involuntarily.

Sheriff Rains had been in a foul mood all week following the road accident, so he had given Mandy a laundry list of garbage jobs though she'd had nothing to do with the destructive incident. Wynne and Mandy had been busy with a little afternoon smooch-n-snuggle when the sheriff had called to dump the latest piece of garbage at their doorstep: he had ordered Mandy into town an hour early so she could perform crowd control at the new movie theater - it seemed the horror-movie cavalcade had attracted a rowdier bunch than anticipated.

Thus robbed of some quality time - and fairly grumpy and miserable for it - Wynne shuffled around her living quarters doing a little housecleaning to prepare for her evening guest. Blackie and Goldie tried their level best to cheer her up, but no matter how silly their antics were, Wynne's glum features refused to morph into a smile. The two dogs eventually gave up and ran out between the trailers to play tag with each other instead.

The dirty dishes from lunch were carried into the kitchen area at the far end of the trailer, and the plastic trash can she had carried around while cleaning was emptied into the large one under the sink; mostly old newspapers and the occasional crumpled beer can though the latter were meant to be put in the bag labeled For Recycling.

She wore her regular pair of faded blue-jeans but she had swapped her cowboy boots for a pair of clean sports socks and yellow flip-flops. Up top, she wore a charcoal-gray down vest over a black sweatshirt that had a white Chevrolet bow tie and a stylized 3 Forever printed on the front in the appropriate font.

Suddenly getting the chills, she rubbed her arms and pulled up the zipper on her vest - the lack of warmth in the trailer was an inevitable result of turning down the heat to save a few dollars on that particular bill. The trash can soon was picked up again for the next part of Operation Remove All Embarrassing Items Before The Guest Gets Here.

'Hey, Wynne, ya ol' rascal!  Ya in there?  I can't knock 'cos I got a buncha stuff with me!' a male voice said from just beyond the front door.

Flinging the empty trash can into a corner, Wynne finally broke out in a grin as she shuffled over to the front door to usher in her guest.

Ernie Bradberry stood outside wearing his usual outfit: work boots, faded blue-jeans, a hunting vest over a long-sleeved flannel shirt and finally his beloved Built Ford Tough baseball cap. His mullet, sideburns and drooping mustache had clearly been trimmed for the occasion because he had a far better hair-day than usual. He held a cardboard pizza box in one hand and two six-packs of H.E. Fenwyck's finest in the other; he also carried a rolled-up coil of white power cable diagonally across his upper body.

"Howdy, Ernie!  Man, y'all sure be a sweet sight fer sore asses. C'mon, lemme help ya with that… ain't in no mood fer accidents tonight, nosirree," Wynne said and took the pizza box and both six-packs. She kept standing in the doorway for a moment or two before she turned around to put the items on the low coffee table by the couch.

"Thanks a bunch, Wynne," Ernie said as he unwound the power cable from around his upper body. After throwing one end into Wynne's trailer, he jogged back to his own home. He soon returned with a portable electric heating panel that he proceeded to plug into the extension cord. A few switches were fiddled with to find the correct setting; then he turned on the heating panel and marveled at the sight of the wires inside it glowing cherry-red.

A pleasant warmth spread at once, so Wynne closed the front door in a hurry to let it remain inside. Though the power cable was in the way, the door was crooked enough to close without problems. "Haw, that pizza sure be smellin' awesome, Ernie!  Lawrdie, I ain't had no pizza or nuttin' fer far, far too long… what's on it?"

"Plenty!" Ernie said with a grin as he kicked off his boots and dove onto the sofa to claim the far half. The lid of the pizza box was soon opened to reveal he hadn't been exaggerating. "Eh?  Come get some while it's hot," he said and grabbed a slice.

"I sure be thankin' ya, friend. I got me a fierce hankerin' for pizza," Wynne replied as she sat down next to her friend and grabbed a slice of her own. After taking a bite or two, she pulled the first six-pack closer and yanked a can out of the plastic holder. A quick glance at the label made her let out a grunt, however.

Ernie nodded while gulping down the next bite. "That's right, they're H.E. Fenwyck Double Zeros. Zero-point-zero alcohol, maximum taste… just like they say in the commercials playin' wall to wall on all the stations. Tastes just like the real thing. I ain't shittin' ya, Wynne!  It's got volume, a good head and a great taste. Just no juice, if ya know what I mean. You can drink fifty of these babies and still pass a sobriety test… even one given to ya by dear, old Artie Rains."

"Aw, Ernie… you an' yer dang-blasted non-alcoholic beer," Wynne said and cracked open the can though she kept her nose crinkled. "Yuh… well… I ain't never tried drinkin' dishwatah befo', but…"

"No, Wynne… I'm tellin' ya it's great. You'll love it. Guaranteed."

"Yuh?"

"Yeah," Ernie said and nodded hard to underscore how much he meant what he had said.

Wynne shrugged and pulled the can closer to her lips - although not too close yet. "Aw, whydahell not. Like I always say, y'all can't go fer seconds if ya ain't had it the first time 'round. Okie-dokie, friend, lessee 'bout this he' thing now…"

As she put the can to her lips, half of it disappeared in the first tidal wave alone. Once she came up for air, she smacked her lips a couple of times while she sorted the impressions provided to her by her tastebuds. "Yuh, okay… that sure ain't none o' that there dishwatah at all. The taste ain't bad, I gotta say that. It's perdy much like the real thang…"

"I told ya so," Ernie said and nudged his elbow into Wynne's side. "Ya oughtta listen to old Ernie now and then… there's a buncha stuff I don't know jack about, but I sure know beer!"

"Yeah, this he' brew is perdy dog-gone good, ack-chew-ly," Wynne said and took another long swig.

"We got it nice an' warm, we got pizza, we got plenty o' great beer… so let's watch some teevee. I brought two awesome tapes with me," Ernie said and tapped the pockets of his hunting vest. "One's the Texas Chainsaw Massacre-"

"Aw, hell no… nuh-uh, friend!" Wynne said and shook her head hard. "I seen me plenty o' Halloween horrors in real life alreddy."

"I guess that's true. So… how 'bout a classic NASCAR Winston Cup race, then?"

"Awright, now ya talkin'!"

"I got it right here," Ernie continued as he reached into the left-hand pocket of his vest to produce an old-fashioned VHS tape. "A two-and-a-half-hour highlight show of the nineteen-ninety Southern five-hundred from Darlin'ton. The good stuff, dontchaknow!"

"Dang straight, Ernie!  That's deffa-net-ly the good stuff right there. Lawrdie, that wus the best era," Wynne said and slapped her friend a high-five. "Gentlemen, start yer engines!"

---

Blackie and Goldie returned home at dusk after spending hours playing around the trailer park and the nearest stretch of the desert. A good time was had by Wynne and Ernie who provided a running commentary while watching the classic race, cheering the wrecks and celebrating the eventual winner.

The pizza box had been emptied as had all twelve cans of beer and even the bags of Cheezy Chips, Bacon Crunchers and microwave popcorn that Wynne had dug out of a cupboard. The many empty cans littered the coffee table and parts of the floor, but that was a minor issue - it was a brand new experience for her not to walk around in a buzz after consuming that much brew.

While the VHS tape rewound and Ernie conducted his beer-induced business in the bathroom - that part hadn't changed regardless of the ale's non-alcoholic nature - Wynne dug into the deepest, darkest part of her personal closet to find the wrapped bundle that contained the artifact she had found in Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse.

The bundle was soon put on the coffee table and unwrapped. The time had finally come to coax the lid of the wooden box into opening, and that task required a small can of lubrication oil, a pair of tweezers, a soft-tipped screwdriver and plenty of light. Sitting down after turning on an extra lamp, Wynne applied a few drops of oil to the two rusty hinges on the back as well as the metal catch on the front.

Not ten seconds after the box had come out into the open, Blackie tore into the living area of the trailer and began to growl all over again. The growling only grew deeper and more intense until Wynne ushered the German Shepherd into the bedroom and closed the door to give her ears a rest.

At much the same time, Ernie came out of the bathroom wiping his hands dry on his pants. It was impossible for him to miss the growling and clawing that took place on the other side of the bedroom door. "What's goin' on with Blackie all of a sudden?" he said as he moved back into the living room.

"Dunno. She been actin' kinda weird fer a week now. I sure do hope it ain't nuttin' serious," Wynne said without taking her eyes off the box.

"Whatcha got there, Wynne?  Holy shit, that thing's awesome," Ernie said as he shuffled over to the VHS to retrieve his tape that had finished rewinding.

"Yuh, ain't it?  Aw, it's jus' som'tin I found out in that there ghost town Silvah Creek the othah night… in Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse. I'mma-gonn' use it as a Christmas gift for mah sweet, li'l De-per-ty Mandy. The darn lid won't open, tho'. I done gave it a squirt o' oil so I can take a peek inside. Don't want no nasty surprises when Mandy gets it, nosirree. Ain't no tellin' what's inside… could be a two-hundred-year-old turd for all I know."

"Or it could be a bar of silver that Big Bill kept for himself," Ernie said and sat down next to his friend. The two people stared at the box for a few moments while they waited for the drops of oil to fully lubricate the rusty hinges.

Growing impatient, Wynne took the pair of tweezers and the soft-tipped screwdriver and began to manipulate the catch and the hinges. The old wooden box squeaked, creaked and groaned as she worked on it, but it was mostly noise with very little in the way of actual results.

The noises were matched note for note by Blackie who continued to whine, growl and scratch on the bedroom door. The incessant growling eventually gave way to a series of hugely loud barks that made the entire trailer rattle.

"Holy shit!" Ernie croaked as he whipped his head around to look at the closed bedroom door. "Good thing I just took a leak!  If I hadn't, my shorts woulda been wet by now… she's got one helluva bark, huh?"

"Yeah. I sure hope she don't get no worse. Can't afford ta take 'er to the vet right now," Wynne said before she stuck her tongue between her lips to concentrate fully on getting the lid to open.

"It's been a weird, weird week out here, anyhow," Ernie continued as he looked at his friend working on the lid. "We've had an ambulance out here three damn times, and that ain't never happened before!"

"Naw. I'm jus' waitin' for the next disastah…" Wynne said around her tongue.

Ernie nodded somberly; clenching his fist, he reached underneath the table to knock on wood just to be on the safe side. "No shit. What, with old man Petrusco fallin' off his ladder… thank God he only bumped his noggin instead of bashin' it in. And then Estelle Tooley gettin' burns on her arm when she tripped and spilled boilin' water. And then Diego Benitez blastin' himself cleanin' his rifle just last night!  I mean, how lucky can a guy be, huh?  Ya generally don't walk away when ya fire a thirty-aught-six at yerself at point blank range… but he did. Gonna get a nasty scar across his brow, though."

"Lawrdie, yeah… that wus a lotta blood right there. Hate blood," Wynne said and scrunched up her face as she recalled the sea of scarlet that had been splattered all over her neighbor's wallpaper.

"So… are ya gettin' anywhere with that thing or what?"

"Keep ya shirt on, Ernie… if I work any hardah, I'mma-gonn' break this he' delicate piece o' gorgeousness… all-righty, he' it comes… aw, hell yeah, he' it comes!" Wynne said as she managed to push the screwdriver into the crack around the lid without damaging the edges of the wood.

A final creaking groan followed before she could lift open the lid. "Wynne Donohue delivers, yessirree!  I keep tellin' ya, Ernie, there ain't nuttin' us wimmenfolk can't do when we put our minds to it-"

A split second after pulling the lid up to its upper stop, Wynne wished she had left the entire thing in its dark grave out at Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse. She had barely looked into the box when a bright-green, otherworldly glow emanating from it forced her to shield her eyes.

Almost at once, a horrific howl that made Wynne and Ernie clap their hands over their ears blasted out of the box and filled the trailer. It sounded like ten thousand banshees screaming all at once, and the wall of noise pushed the two people away from the coffee table and back against the couch.

"Ah knew it!  Ah knew it!  Ah frig-fraggin' knew it!  An' Ah hate, hate, hate Halloween!" Wynne cried, but that was all she had time for before a small army of goblins spewed from the wooden box like a fountain of evil.

Though the creatures were olive-green, just shy of a foot tall and dressed in innocuous peasant-like clothing, there was nothing amusing or Yoda-like about them or their behavior. Cackling insanely, they tore around the trailer wreaking havoc wherever they went: posters and pictures were knocked off the walls, chairs were turned over, lamps were sent onto the floor, a drawer containing compact discs was emptied the messy way, and the light-weight, empty beer cans were whipped up into a mini-tornado that only made the conditions inside the trailer even more surreal and chaotic.

One of the empty cans whacked Wynne across the brow, and she let out an emphatic "Owch!  Sombitch!" before she jumped up to dive for cover behind the couch. When she noticed that Ernie hadn't followed her into hiding, she popped her head up from behind the backrest and grabbed hold of his shoulders. "Whatcha waitin' for?!  Ya want a written invita-shun or som'tin?  Getcha ass outta the firin' line, man!"

The exclamation only seemed to add to the little creatures' delight in creating chaos and confusion around the trailer, because they were soon cackling even louder as they upped their pace and thus their destructive force. Their next target was the electric heating panel, and it was knocked over with a bang and an audible crackle from the electrical wires inside it.

Wynne yelped loudly and flew over to it before it could start a fire. After righting it, she yanked the plug out of the extension cord and swung it around in the hope of hitting one of the goblins. All she succeeded in doing was to give herself a whack across her thigh, so being a trick-roping artist was soon scratched from the list of career paths she wanted to check out.

A moment later - while a stunned Ernie scrambled over the backrest to join Wynne behind the couch - Blackie finally broke through the bedroom door and came storming into the living area. The fearless black German Shepherd barked her head off as she went into a frenzied chase of the green creatures, and several more items were knocked off the tables as a result.

Blackie's efforts seemed to backfire when the goblins ganged up on her and forced her into a corner by the TV, but Wynne came to her beloved dog's rescue by giving one of the pint-sized aggressors such a hard kick straight up the caboose that it went flying while uttering a pained, high-pitched scream. As it impacted on the nearest wall, it exploded in a green flash. "Nobodda but nobodda threatens mah dawg!  An' that includes li'l green sombitches like you! Now gittahell outta mah trailah befo' Ah really lose mah shit and wipe'da floor withcha!  Git!"

Either the goblins had a hard time understanding Wynne's dialect or they simply didn't care about her message, because all that happened was an increase in their destructive presence. The green creatures zoomed around the trailer like firecrackers run amuck until they finally found the exit in the shape of the front door.

Hotly pursued by a frantically barking Blackie, the goblins swarmed out of the door and into the mounting darkness of the late afternoon - not a moment passed before cries of surprise or fear were heard from the other trailers.

After the creatures had knocked down tables, chairs and even people in the space between the homes, they merged into a single, luminous being and raced out of the trailer park. Reaching the State Route, the green ball of energy hovered in mid-air for a few seconds before it sprouted dozens of legs that enabled it to literally roll toward Goldsboro at break-neck speed.

"What the flyin' figgaroo just happened, Wynne?" Ernie croaked from somewhere underneath the couch. As he spoke, he used both hands to hold onto his precious Built Ford Tough baseball cap so it wouldn't get lost all over again. When it seemed the immediate danger was over, he crawled out, clambered to his feet and dusted himself off.

Wynne stood in the middle of the battlefield that had once been her pristine living room. Grinding her jaw hard, she surveyed the carnage but had to come to a stop after counting the fifth broken item so her blood pressure wouldn't go off the scale. "Aw, nuttin' in parti-coo-lar, Ernie… jus' yer average Halloween insanity in the Donah-hue-Jalinski household. Aliens, ghosts, cannibal zombies an' now a buncha weird green crittahs. Ain't nuttin' unusual 'bout none o' that, is there?  Lawwwwr-die how I friggin' hate Halloween. Hate, hate, hate Halloween!" - At the end of the sentence, she threw her hands in the air and roared out her frustrations.

The wild roar made Goldie peek out from the bedroom where she had been hiding during the worst of the green storm. She whimpered at first, but the whimpers were replaced by happy woof'ing when Blackie returned none the worse for wear. The two dogs rubbed furs and woof'ed at length like Blackie was giving a detailed report of her small excursion. The black German Shepherd eventually strolled into the living room with a relieved Goldie in tow.

Wynne knelt at once to pull her guard dog in for a solid hug. "Aw yeah, that's mah Blackie!  Y'all knew all along, diddencha?  Ya sure as hell did, ya clevah dawggie!  That's why ya wus growlin' all the dang-blasted time. Sombitch, I shoulda lissened to ya, but I wus too dumb ta notice!  Thanks a whole bunch fer tryin' ta protect me from them there puke-colored crittahs. Ya earned yaself a giganto pile o' yummy dawggie treats… I jus' need to buy y'all a new pack first 'cos we're all out."

Blackie's happy woof'ing turned downcast when it dawned on her that her reward would have to wait, but a nudge from Goldie made her perk up again.

"Call me crazy if ya want," Ernie said as he slid closer to the wide-open box with a great degree of caution in case more monsters would appear, "but I coulda sworn those critters came from inside this thing… except there ain't room for 'em… look, it's only, what, four-five inches tall on the inside," he continued as he put his fingers into the box to measure it.

Wynne let out a bitter snort as she let go of Blackie and got to her feet. "Oh-ho, them li'l sombitches came from that there dang-blasted box, awright. Serves me right fer takin' it back with me… I oughtta have mah dog-gone head examined. I can hear the Doc alreddy… oh, yer head's jus' fihne, Mizz Donah-hue… completely em'ty, but fihne!" she said and rubbed her face and aching brow. "Lawrdie, why can't I evah catch an honest break?!"

"What the hell kinda language is that, anyway?" Ernie said as he traced the carved letters with his fingers.

"Ain't got no clue, Ernie. Don't really give a darn, neither. Them letters there probably say 'gittahell away from this he' thing, ya dumb knucklehead!' or some such."

"So… now what?" Ernie said, removing his precious cap to wipe his damp brow and fluff his mullet. "When those things reach Goldsboro, it's gonna be one helluva big mess in there, lemme tell ya."

"An' then some… I bettah call De-per-ty Mandy an' warn her," Wynne said and dug through all her pockets to find her smartphone. "Crap, ain't got mah phone… I musta lost it. Where'd the li'l buggah go?  Ya see mah phone anywhere, Ernie?"

"Ain't been lookin' for it," Ernie said as he stared high and low for the missing telephone. "No… nothin' here. Wait, lemme check under the couch… nope. No phone," he continued as his head came back into view.

"Awwww, crap!  What happened to mah frickin' phone?!  Ah ain't even done payin' for it!  Ah frickin' hate Halloween!" Wynne roared which made Goldie spin around and zoom back into the bedroom so fast that her golden fur rippled in the headwind.

-*-*-*-

A few miles north in Goldsboro, Mandy and her fellow deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez entered the Sheriff's Office after their lengthy assignment at the movie theater. They had worked hard to separate the diehard fans of Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees - of Friday the 13th fame - who had insisted on badmouthing the other group's favorite. The discussion had quickly evolved from shouted arguments past pushing and shoving before it had come to the inevitable conclusion: swinging fists, thrown beer cans and plenty of verbal abuse of the worst kind.

Seventeen fines had been issued and fourteen people had been arrested; so many, in fact, that Sheriff Rains had needed to call Barton City to request a large paddy wagon that could take them all off his hands.

Mandy didn't even bother to shed her uniform jacket before she made a beeline for the coffee machine. She poured herself a large mugful, and although the dark-brown liquid was steaming hot, she gulped it down to get her body temperature, her energy-level and her deep-seated belief in the good of mankind back to their regular condition.

Behind them, the door opened once more to reveal Sheriff Arthur 'Artie' Rains whose unhealthy facial color, unbuttoned uniform shirt and loose necktie showed he was looking for a bottle of bourbon rather than a mug of coffee to get his temper back under wraps.

Having recently turned forty-eight, the sheriff's unhealthy appetite for life's many little splendors made him look over sixty rather than under fifty. Two packs of cigarettes a day plus copious amounts of beer, whisky and other types of potent liquor had left their marks on his round face by giving him drooping eyelids, chubby cheeks, a double chin and wrinkles as deep as the Grand Canyon. The regulations meant he couldn't have any facial hair, but his bushy eyebrows more than made up for a lack of a mustache or a chin beard.

His two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of body weight had mostly gathered around his waist in a potbelly commonly referred to as a beer gut, and the countless late nights he had spent playing poker and eight-ball in Iverson's Bar had only worsened his complexion and general fitness. Still, his six-foot-three frame and his undeniable, flabby-jawed presence and strict sense of law and order had ensured his popularity with the right people and thus his re-election into public office for a third straight term.

"That!" he roared while he thumped his fist into the watch desk that was unoccupied as usual. "Was the last Goddamned time I'll give those show-folk douchebags any kind of permit to show anything other than wholesome, family-friendly entertainment on Halloween!  Goddammit, what a criminal waste of our time and resources!  At least tomorrow's cavalcade will be a far calmer affair. It had better be!" Another hard thump followed the first one before he buttoned his shirt and straightened his tie to fall in line with the uniform dress code and the rest of the regulations he had put together himself.

"Yes, Sheriff," Mandy and Rodolfo said as one. Their collective experience with Artie Rains told them it was useless to point out that exactly half of the Westerns on the program for Sunday's John Wayne extravaganza were quite intense and far from being family-friendly - The Searchers and Red River.

The tension was broken by the ringing of the ancient Bakelite landline telephone sitting on the watch desk. Mandy reached for it at once, but Artie Rains was clearly in no mood to go on further assignments: "I don't care if that's the Goddamned President of the United States!  I'm not here!" he said with a hand on the front door's doorknob.

"Yes, Sheriff," Mandy said and put her hand on the receiver.

Grunting, Sheriff Rains left the office and stomped away to get to his personal car that was parked a short distance further up Main Street.

Mandy let out a quiet sigh of relief. She and Rodolfo Gonzalez locked eyes and shared the type of look common between co-workers who had to carry out their solemn duties under a dictator. Rolling her tired shoulders, she picked up the receiver. "Good evening, this is the Goldsboro Sheriff's Office. Deputy Jalinski speaking. How may we help you?"

'Mandy?  Haw, thank Gawd!  This he' is Wynne!  Y'all got some serious shit comin' atcha!'

"What- Wynne, I-"

'An' Ah mean some real serious shit!  Y'all gotta mobilize everythin' an' everyone ya got 'cos them there li'l green crittahs sure iz mean an' they won't take no for an ans'ah!'

By now, Mandy needed to pinch the bridge of her nose to stop a sudden attack of headache, dizziness and utter confusion. "Wynne, I've had a real bad afternoon… we almost had a riot here. You need to slow down. From the top, please… what's coming at us?"

'A buncha weird green crittahs!  Real ugly fellas!  Kinda like elves or pixies or som'tin… trolls!  Yuh, trolls… jus' way nastier!  They done flew outta' box I found an' they sure as hell-on-wheels got that there glow-in-the-dark thing down pat… they wrecked our dog-gone trailah but good befo' they done turned themselves inta'ball that sprouted legs an' took off like-'

Mandy's nose-pinching was quickly replaced by slapping a hand across her eyes. "Wynne, you're not making any sense. Have you been drinking?  You promised you wouldn't-"

'Uh, well, uh… yuh, Ah sapose… but only them there-'

"How many?"

'Uh… eight…'

"Oh, Wynne…"

'Wait!  Will ya wait a dad-gummit moment befo' ya smack mah ass with a rubbah hose, De-per-ty?  Ah swear ta the old guy in the sky Ah only had them there Fenwyck Double Zeros!  Ya know 'em 'cos we been talkin' 'bout 'em each an' every flippin' time we see 'em on the Rasslin' Channel!  Ain't got no alcohol or nuttin' in 'em 'cept plenty o' taste… but ya gotta lissen ta me, Mandy, ya got plenty o' trubbel comin'!  An' it's comin' fast, too!'

Mandy's face was set in stone at the upsetting news - not the phantom trouble headed their way, but the fact that Wynne had broken her promise with regards to giving the beer a rest for a few weeks. "Where did you get them?" she said in a voice that had turned a degree or two colder.

'Uh… the crittahs or the beer?'

"The beer!"

'Ernie brought it ovah with a pizza an' an old NAS-'

"I think I'll have a word with Mr. Bradberry when I get home."

'Yuh… yuh… look, De-per-ty Mandy, them there beers really wus Double Zeros. Eight didden even make me woozy or nuttin', but I'm tellin' ya there be plenty o' trubbel headed your way… hell, I ain't got no clue why they ain't there alreddy…'

Sudden shouting from somewhere out on Main Street made Mandy turn to look out of the large windows. She let out a deep sigh when someone came running past the Sheriff's Office headed for the movie theater further up the street. "Wynne, I can't talk right now. I think there's another fight developing up at the-"

'Naw-naw-naw, it ain't no punch-up, De-per-ty!  That's what I been tryin' ta tell ya… betcha ten bucks it's them there weird green crittahs!  Hell, an' I ain't even got no ten bucks ta bet!'

More shouting and a truck braking so hard it made its tires squeal alerted Rodolfo who stepped out onto Main Street to have a look around. The cord for the landline telephone was too short for Mandy to follow him out there, but it didn't matter because no more than two seconds went by before the other deputy came flying back inside. "You gotta come see this!  There's… there's something weird out there!"

"Goddammit, not again!  Wynne, I gotta go!" Mandy barked and slammed down the receiver. Grabbing her Mountie hat, she left the office in a hurry and ran out onto the sidewalk. Her boots had barely taken a step out there before she came to a screeching halt to stare at the sickly-green ball of energy that rolled along Main Street on what had to be fifty little feet.

Before she could utter as much as a grunt, the ball exploded and turned into at least two dozen pint-sized creatures that flew off in all possible directions. Soon, Halloween decorations were torn apart, storefront windows were smashed and neon signs were punctured or ripped out of their sockets. The latter created large showers of orange sparks that rained down upon the sidewalk and the creatures whose insane cackling gave the impression they thought it was all rather entertaining.

Not satisfied with the destruction they had already caused, the olive-green brigands carried on to set off car alarms, destroy street signs, knock down newspaper stands and public trash cans, and even tear down Goldsboro's only set of traffic lights that hung above the intersection of Main and Second Street - it had survived the zombie invasion the year before despite being shot at, but it couldn't withstand the green goblins.

"Wynne, I'm sorry I doubted you…" Mandy croaked as she took in the carnage everywhere around them.

Screams and yelling soon filtered through from every part of Goldsboro, and there were even a few potshots taken at the invasion force in the hope it would persuade them to go elsewhere.

The green creatures were as unpredictable as shooting stars and as unruly as an entire pack of untamed bobcats; they flew from one side of Main Street to the other ruining everything they came into contact with. More windows were smashed, more Halloween decorations were ripped apart and more alarms were set off - then a large group of the cackling goblins descended upon Mrs. Peabody's famous boarding house a few hundred yards further up the street from the Sheriff's Office.

"Madre mia!  Not Mrs. Peabody's!" Rodolfo cried as he threw his arms in the air. "The ol' lady gonna have a fit if those things as much as touch her precious-"

The words had barely left the deputy's mouth before several of the hotel's windows exploded out onto the street followed by shredded curtains, splintered pieces of wooden furniture and finally a large handful of the wildly cackling goblins.

The violent action seemed to slap Mandy awake. Storming back inside the Sheriff's Office, she hurried over to the gun cabinet where she pulled open the outer door and released the protective bar's padlock. She knew exactly what she wanted and grabbed two of the trusty Mossberg pump-action shotguns that had served her so well in similar mind-blowing situations in the past.

After dumping a box of shells into each of the uniform jacket's side pockets, she took a safer grip on the shotguns and ran back out onto the street. "Rodolfo!  Here!" she shouted while throwing the weapon at her fellow deputy. "I don't know what the hell's going on, but I do know we're the only ones here who can stop it." As she spoke, she reached into a pocket and retrieved one of the boxes of shells.

"Yes, Ma'am!" Rodolfo said as he took the box handed to him.

In the middle of all that pandemonium, Sheriff Rains' personal vehicle, a Dodge Intrepid, came blasting back up Main Street. Several creatures were mown down in the process. As the car's front bumper slammed into them, they dissolved in a bright-green flash that didn't seem to leave any damage or even residue on the Dodge. "Jalinski!" the sheriff bellowed even before getting out of the car. "What the hell have you and that numbskull Donohue been up to now?!"

"Nothing, Sheriff!"

"Don't give me that!  Look at this Goddamned mess!" Artie Rains roared as he made a sweeping gesture at the shards of glass, bent street signs and the wild bunch of cackling, olive-green creatures that continued to wreak havoc in the quiet community of Goldsboro. "How many years in a row is this now?  And who do you think the Town Council is gonna blame?  Me!  But you better listen to me, and listen good, Jalinski… I don't care who or what is behind it, but I guaran-Goddamn-tee ya I'm gonna come down on that person like a ton of shits!  Civilian or law enforcement officer won't matter to me… ya hear me?!"

"I hear you loud and clear, Sheriff," Mandy said in a clear growl that the sheriff was too preoccupied to pick up on - Rodolfo did, however, and broke out in a smirk.

Instead of getting into an argument with the perpetually pig-headed Artie Rains, Mandy worked the action on her shotgun before she set off down Main Street to intercept and eliminate the green threat wherever she could find it.

-*-*-*-

Two minutes earlier.

In the trailer park eight miles further south on the State Route, Wynne continued to stare wide-eyed at Ernie's smartphone though the display had already turned inactive after her conversation with Mandy had been cut short. "Awwww, hell… I knew this wus gonn' happen… them there nasty crittahs done made it to Goldsborah," she croaked as she handed back the telephone.

"Shit!"

"We gotta help," Wynne said and moved fast for a change. Kicking off her flip-flops, she flew into the bedroom to put on her cowboy boots and the rest of her beloved Cowpoke outfit. "Ernie!  Mah truck ain't gott'enuff gas… we need'a take yer Fohrd!" she shouted past the bedroom door while Blackie and Goldie did their best to hinder her by barking loudly and zipping around in dizzying circles close to her legs.

"You betcha!  I'll be out front in two minutes!" Ernie cried as he hurried out of the door to get back to his own trailer.

"Y'all better make it one minute, friend, 'cos Ah'm halfway there alreddy!" Wynne shouted after him as she whipped off her vest and slipped her arms down the sleeves of her wool-lined denim jacket.

Turning around to grab her gloves from the bed, she suddenly spotted her own telephone that had fallen into a crack between the mattress and the bed's frame. "Wa-hey!  There's mah dag-nabbin' phone!" she said as she reached for it at once. "Lookie here, gals, I found my phone… an' the very nice pic-chures o' mah sweet li'l De-per-ty Mandy that be on it… heh, heh. Lawrdie, I ack-chew-ly thought them there nasty-ass green crittahs had eaten it!"

The sheepskin gloves were next which left her indispensable low-crowned cowboy hat as the last fashion item. Though they were in an almighty hurry, she had to pause for a moment in front of the full-sized mirror on the wardrobe door. Some things couldn't be rushed no matter the catastrophes surrounding them, and The Last Original Cowpoke simply had to look the part. Once she had run her fingers along the rim to make sure the hat was on just right - a little crooked, but not too much - she patted Blackie and Goldie's fur to make them leave the bedroom and the trailer.

Outside, the other residents of the trailer park were righting the knocked-over tables and chairs while yapping about the latest disaster to strike them. Wynne wanted to apologize for the mess she had created, but there was no time for that as Ernie Bradberry already had his new silver-and-metallic-blue Ford F350 Super Duty Crew Cab pickup truck hot and running.

After helping Blackie and Goldie up onto the twelve-foot long bed behind the double cab, she jumped in on the comfortable seat and slammed the door shut behind her. "Step on it, Ernie!" she said, pointing out of the windshield. "We gotta get there befo' them there crittahs can flatten li'l, ol' Goldsborah and mah sweet, li'l De-per-ty!"

"What about the box?  It's where they came from!"

"Uh… uh… good thinkin', Ernie!  Hold 'em hosses, pardner," Wynne said and bolted from the Ford truck. Half a minute later, she jumped back inside and threw the offending wooden item down onto the footwell's plush carpet. "Now we hustle!"

As Ernie stepped on the gas, the large-displacement V8 engine roared and the tandem rear wheels kicked up plenty of sand and dust as they searched for traction; the heavy truck soon picked up speed and fish-tailed out of the trailer park and onto the State Route - Wynne could do nothing but hold onto her beloved hat as the dark scenery flew by in a blur.

Up on the bed, Goldie whimpered out loud and mashed her entire body down onto the metal floor to be safe, but Blackie loved the experience and just sat there with her tongue wagging in joy while the tearing winds ruffled her dark fur.

-*-*-*-

"Damn!  Another miss!" Mandy growled as she worked the action of her Mossberg. It had been the last shell, so she needed to reload before she could recommence chasing the green creatures. So far, the running battle around Goldsboro had been a one-sided affair: her tally was a big, fat zero while the creatures had caused plenty of havoc all the way up and down Main and Second Street.

A small fire had broken out in Moira's Bar & Grill when a group of cackling goblins had literally jumped onto the hot stove, but it had soon been put out by a concerted effort of the various barflies who were there for the annual Halloween spectacular - they had sacrificed their beloved beers by pouring them onto the flames. The conflagration had been doused, but it had come at a high price that left plenty of sad faces.

"I can't hit 'em either!  They're too damn fast!" Rodolfo said as he caught up with Mandy. Panting like a Marathon runner struggling to get through the final two miles of the course, he whipped off his Mountie hat to wipe his sweaty brow. "We need something else… we're gonna end up killing someone if we continue to shoot wild like this!"

Mandy growled again and put the smoking Mossberg over her arm to let it cool off. "Can't argue with that… but what?  Goddammit, there must be some way we can stop 'em… whatever they are. Where's the sheriff?"

"Haven't seen him lately," Rodolfo said as he mashed his Mountie hat back onto his dark locks.

"Typical." Grunting out her displeasure, Mandy continued to look up and down Main Street for something, anything that could be useful to them, but she was drawing a blank. Two more creatures chose that moment to jump onto the street directly ahead of the deputies, but before the shotguns could even be swung about, the green meanies were long gone and engaged in further destruction elsewhere. "Oh, Goddammit!" she barked to the heavens above without getting much of an answer in return.

Fast-moving headlights and loud, persistent honking heralded the arrival of Ernie, Wynne and the two dogs. As the custom-painted Ford F350 Super Duty came to a rocking halt up against the curb outside the sheriff's office, the two people and the canines bolted from it to join the deputies.

"Lawwwwwwr-die!  Wouldya look at this he' dang-blasted mess!  Hoa-brothah, it done looks like somebodda threw a cotton-pickin' cherry bomb inta' crappah!" Wynne cried as she took in the carnage around town. "Awwww, De-per-ty Mandy, yer safe!  Thank Gawd yer safe!" she continued as she hurried into Mandy's arms for a solid hug.

"Yeah, this isn't like last year… yet. They don't seem interested in attacking us, only destroying the property. Good evening, Mr. Bradberry," Mandy said and rubbed Wynne's arms before she did the same to Blackie and Goldie's fur.

"Hello, Deputy. Hiya, Rodolfo!" Ernie said, tipping his Built Ford Tough baseball cap like a real gentleman.

After the dogs had been thoroughly rubbed, Blackie took off to hunt down the green creatures all over again - Goldie was far more reluctant at first, but a couple of quick woofs from Blackie convinced her it would be relatively safe. The chase was soon on which only created even more pandemonium.

"Fer Chrissakes!  Wouldya look at that there dag-nabbin' mess ovah yondah at Missus Peabody's!" Wynne exclaimed as she caught an eyeful of the utter destruction of the front of Goldsboro's only hotel. The shredded curtains continued to flap in the breeze, and further shards of glass fell off the damaged frames to join the piles that were already littering the sidewalk.

"Yeah," Mandy said, "this is one of the craziest situations we've ever had to deal with. I mean, what the hell are these things?  And where do they come from?"

"Awwwww, well… I may 've had som'tin ta do with that," Wynne said as she shuffled around on the spot. Sounds of breaking glass reached them from further up Main Street which made them all look in that direction; soon, a new wave of insane cackling was heard while another neon sign came crashing down in a shower of sparks. "Dang-blast them li'l sombitches all to heck, that wus such a perdy sign, too!" Wynne continued before she turned back to Mandy. "Uh, yeah… I ain't got no clue what them crittahs ack-chew-ly iz, but I sure know where they done came from… Lawrdie, I think I may have… uh… summoned 'em. Or som'tin."

"You what?!"

"Uh, yeah… lemme show ya," Wynne said and ran over to Ernie's truck to get the wooden box. After using her jacket sleeve to remove a few specks of dust from the shiny lid, she ran back to the others and held it up. "Them nasty crittahs kinda came from this he' li'l box right he'. I had the best of inten-shuns with it, dog-gone it… it was meant to be yer Christmas gift an' all…"

"Well… that was a nice thought, Wynne…"

"Yuh. I found it out at Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse. Ya know, out in that there ghost town we wus out at last Saturday when… when… haw, Jayzus Frickin' Cah-rist!" Wynne suddenly cried; she stared at Mandy and then at the box like she had just put all the pieces of the puzzle together only to discover the picture wasn't the same as the one on the cover. "When the Durangah done got wrecked on the way back!  It wus them crittahs!  Lawrdie, Ah knew there wussen nuttin' wrong with them there chains 'cos I triple-checked the frickin'-"

"Not now, Wynne… what does that say?" Mandy said and pointed at the carved letters.

"An' jus' how in Sam Hill didya expect me ta know that, De-per-ty?  Ah be a lotta things, but a lang-witch expert sure ain't one of 'em!  Shoot, Ah can't even hardly speak no proper 'merican!"

Ernie, Rodolfo and Mandy shared a brief look to underscore the undeniable truth of that statement before they turned their attention to the lid of the box. Rodolfo soon let out a grunt. "Well, I'm no expert either, but it's definitely not Spanish."

"Native American, perhaps?" Ernie said.

Rodolfo shrugged while further screams and cackling reached their ears. "Well, from what I know, the Nation who lived here before the white man took over didn't have a written language. I'm actually a way, way, way distant descendant of the tribe. Or one-eighth of me is, anyway. My maternal grandmother was a pure-blood Shoshone."

"Lela White Feather is a Shoshone. She might know," Mandy said as she handed the box back to Wynne, "but we don't have time to find her and ask. We have to stop this invasion before they'll tear down the town around us!"

"But can't y'all jus' use them there scatterguhns?" Wynne asked, pointing at the Mossbergs.

"The creatures are moving too fast. We can't hit them," Mandy said surly.

Wynne rubbed her brow frantically as she looked at the destruction surrounding them. Cackling, crashing, shrieks and steadily increasing gunfire were heard from around town like the residents had only just discovered what was going on in their fair Goldsboro. Her eyes had already moved past several of the small shops and larger stores along Main Street when they came to a rest at one of the more recent additions to the town's commercial range: the Spartan Wings sports goods store.

"Yessirree!" she cried and threw her arms in the air much to the surprise of the others - Ernie just stared at her like she had lost her last marble. "Lookie there!  The Spartan Wings!  Bats!  Rackets!  Tennis rackets!  Or squash rackets… or whatevah-rackets… but blunt instruments is what Ah'm tryin' ta say!"

"Rackets?" Mandy said, trying to follow her partner's train of thought as well as her frantic arm-waving.

"Yuh-yuh!  Back out in our trailah, Ah done kicked one o' them there li'l, green sombitches up the tailpipe, an' it disappeared inta thin air!  If we bash 'em with bats an' rackets, I'll betcha they'll do the same!"

"I know what you mean, Wynne!" Rodolfo cried, punching his fist into his open palm. "Like when the sheriff came back… at least one of those things exploded without trace when it hit his car!"

Mandy let out a grunt - she had seen it as well without putting any emphasis on it at the time. "That's right… okay. Rackets it is," she said and took off in a sprint to get to the Spartan Wings sports goods store.

The fact that it had already closed for the evening was something they would have to square with the owner at a later date. Turning her Mossberg around, she slammed the stock against the handle of the glass door - the entire section of reinforced glass crumpled and fell into the store. The burglar alarm went off at once, but there was so much brouhaha and confusion in Goldsboro already that another blaring wall of noise couldn't draw much attention.

---

Fully armed with field hockey sticks, baseball bats, and rackets for tennis, squash and even badminton, the motley strike team of Mandy Jalinski, Wynne Donohue, Ernie Bradberry and Rodolfo Gonzalez ran back onto Main Street to search for creatures that would act as guinea pigs to test the theory. "Wynne, you're with me!" Mandy cried over her shoulder as she spotted two of the green goblins running toward the Tack & Saddle, the local leather goods store. Holding up her tennis racket like it was a broad-nosed bazooka, she set off to intercept the destructive enemies before they could do too much damage.

"Yes, Ma'am, De-per-ty Mandy, Ma'am!" Wynne cried back as she took off in the deputy's tracks; the hard heels of her cowboy boots clicking loudly as she tore across the street.

"Huh… the gals get all the fun," Ernie said and tried a few practice swings with the aluminum baseball bat he had appropriated. It seemed to work, so he and Rodolfo - who wielded another tennis racket with a field hockey stick as backup - were soon on the prowl for green creatures as well.

---

The next fifteen minutes saw more swings and cracking strikes than an entire season's worth of major league baseball, more unrestrained hits with hockey sticks than a summer try-out at an ice hockey rink, and more wild smashes than in the US Open tennis tournament. The ugly creatures were sent into the next dimension wholesale as the four racketeers raced around Goldsboro to get even with them for causing all that chaos and mayhem.

"Lawrdie, they be fast, but they sure be dumb!" Wynne said as she performed a mean swing with her pale-brown, wooden baseball bat. The resulting impact sent yet another green goblin into oblivion with a high-pitched scream and a bright flash. "Nailed that crittah but good!  Hawwww-yeah!  That oughtta teach them there buhtt-ugly fellas never ta mess with Wynne Donohue, nosirree!"

"Wynne!  Less talking, more whacking, please!" Mandy said as she had cornered a particularly nasty-looking creature in an alley off Second Street. She bobbed left-to-right with her tennis racket held out ahead of her like a lance to be ready for the perfect moment to strike.

The cornered goblin's rat-like eyes were out on stalks as it tried to find a way past the deputy, but all its actions were mirrored by the racket-wielding woman. Ultimately, the frenetic little creature made a desperate lurch forward.

Mandy looked away at exactly the wrong moment so the ugly creature was indeed able to slip past her boots and head for freedom - but that newfound freedom was short-lived as a baseball bat came barreling down toward it. A moment later, the creature exploded in a bright-green flash.

"Awwwww-yeah!  Chalk up 'nother one for the gal team!" Wynne cried and tried to twirl the baseball bat like all her favorite fictional heroines did on TV. She proved to be somewhat less adept at the circus act than her heroines because all she accomplished was to send the bat flying. "Oh, fer Pete's sake," she mumbled and hurried after her weapon of choice so she wouldn't be unarmed in case of a sneak attack.

Once the latest creature had been dealt with, Mandy and Wynne ran back out onto Second Street to find further targets. No creatures were near at first glance, but one was soon spotted zipping along the sidewalk headed for a few homes further down Second Street. "There's one!  Ya see it?" Mandy cried and hustled after the goblin.

"Ah sure do!  Ah'm glued to yer buhtt, De-per-ty Mandy!" Wynne cried back before she broke out in a fit of naughty giggles.

-*-*-*-

'Deputy Jalinski?  Deputy Jalinski?!' Sheriff Rains barked from somewhere out on Main Street. The volume and tone of his voice proved he had an issue to talk through with Mandy that went beyond the boundless carnage inside his jurisdiction.

"Awww-hell, no…" Wynne whined at the unwelcome sound of the Sheriff's booming voice. "Artie Rains is in town?  Dang-blasted… I didden think he wus he'. I get them sour burps jus' lissenin' to him!"

Blackie and Goldie had caught up with Mandy and Wynne once more, and the two dogs yapped and wagged their tails like they were more than happy to be on the hunt for the supernatural beings - even Goldie seemed braver and more content than normal as a result of having been involved in her fair share of the frantic action.

Turning around, Mandy thrust her effective tennis racket into her partner's arms to be a little more presentable. The instrument of fun was soon replaced by an instrument of death - the Mossberg - that she held in the regulatory grip over her arm so the sheriff couldn't pick on her for that. "I better see what he wants… stay sharp, Wynne. We got twelve so far, but there might be more of those things out here."

"Yes, Ma'am… me an' Blackie an' Goldie he' got a surprise or ten fer them there li'l crittahs if anyone of 'em tries ta sneak past me!" Wynne said and attempted to twirl her baseball bat again. For the second time in as many attempts, she needed to bend over to pick it up after her twirling had failed miserably - and Blackie let out a few woofs in a fashion that made it sound like she was snickering at her mistress.

---

Back at the sheriff's office, Artie Rains had been joined by the owner of Goldsboro's best bar and grill, the temperamental Moira MacKay, and a few of the beery patrons who had helped doused the small fire. The barflies soon shuffled away once more when they realized there were no beers to be had to replace those that had been lost forever.

Ernie Bradberry and Rodolfo Gonzalez - who had dispatched another eleven creatures between them - were there as well, and they made sure to keep well back from the irate law man whose complexion had gained another few shades of red.

"About damn time, Deputy!  I called your name three times already!" Sheriff Rains growled as Mandy finally came around the corner of Second Street and marched over to him in her regular, determined stride. "Look at my Goddamned car!" he continued as he stepped aside to show the sorry state of his Dodge Intrepid.

Mandy grimaced at the sight of the left-front fender having more holes in it than Swiss cheese. The tire had been shredded which had left the car drooping on that corner. Up close, there was no denying the holes in the fender had been caused by shotgun pellets. The spread between the various holes proved it had been a random blast from afar and not the result of a malicious direct hit at close range, but that didn't help much in the present situation.

"You have my sympathies, Sheriff," Mandy said, shifting the Mossberg to her other arm.

"I don't give a crap about your Goddamned sympathies!  I want to get my hands on the Goddamned sonovabitch who did it!" Artie Rains said with such intensity that a shower of spittle followed his words. His face grew even redder from the stress, so he reached up and yanked his necktie to the side so he could unbutton his uniform shirt all over again. "There were only two people here with shotguns… Deputy Gonzalez and you. Deputy Gonzalez is adamant it wasn't him, which leaves you, Jalinski. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Mandy drew a sharp breath and let it out through her nose. Artie Rains had had a burr in his shorts about her ever since she had first walked into the office with her transfer papers nine years earlier. She could perhaps understand a certain hesitancy toward a fresh-faced rookie from the big city, but why it continued to be so, she had no idea.

It suddenly became crystal clear to Mandy that the sheriff would use the unfortunate shooting incident as an excuse to kick her off the force despite all she had done for the town over the years. Scrunching up her face and grinding her jaw, she decided that if she had to go down, she might as well do it with flying colors. She glanced at Rodolfo who could only grimace in return. "It might have been me, Sheriff," she said in a surprisingly calm voice. "I can't say. We were fighting a war here… but I guess it was difficult for you to know seeing that you never left your desk."

"Somebody had to protect the Sheriff's Office!  And you're way out of line, Deputy!"

Ernie and Moira MacKay shared a sideways look that stated quite clearly that Something Bad was about to happen. Before anyone had time to speak up - or explode further, in the case of Artie Rains - Councilwoman Mary-Lou Skinner showed up with her neighbor and close friend, the foppish Wyatt Elliott, in tow.

As always in times of Halloween-related crises, Wyatt carried his precious Remington hunting rifle over his shoulder like he was some kind of Army Ranger sharpshooter - that he had been hiding under a table with his face buried in his hands instead of being outside fighting the goblin-assault was another story entirely. He wore a Stetson and an elegant, off-white Western suit that resembled those from the 1970s, except that his wasn't equipped with any glittering rhinestones.

"Aw, Goddammit… more women. Just what we needed," Artie Rains growled as he saw the hefty Mary-Lou lumbering toward him. Since she was his superior, he screwed a fake smile on his face but refrained from putting out his hand in the traditional greeting.

Being the senior member of the Town Council, Mary-Lou Skinner had taken it upon herself to survey the damage to the town's stores and infrastructure. She had needed to buy herself another Chihuahua after her last one had been a grim casualty of the zombie invasion the year before, so her fleshy face carried a look of sublime annoyance over the fact that Goldsboro had once again descended into the seventh level of hell without anyone filling in an application form and submitting it in triplicate like the council's bylaws clearly stated.

"Sheriff Rains, will you please explain to me what happened this time?" the matronly woman said in a puzzled but calm voice once she was close enough. Though Mary-Lou had lost thirty pounds after spending most of the year on a diet to help her respiration and aching knees, her shape was still quite round, and she needed Wyatt Elliott's hand on her elbow to continue a forward motion.

"I can't, Councilwoman Skinner. I apologize," Artie Rains growled still wearing the fake smile; it faded when he turned to look at Mandy. "But I'm sure Deputy Jalinski here has something to say about it. She and that vapor-head girlfriend of hers always seem to be at the center of-"

Shaking her head, Mary-Lou Skinner let out a stern Tut-tut! at the sheriff's language. "Mr. Rains, that was uncalled for!  Let's keep a civil tone, shall we?"

"Yes, Councilwoman Skinner," the sheriff mumbled before he took a long step away to get back to his ruined car. All the way there, he let out a constant stream of curses that were just a smidgen too low to decipher for anyone but those standing closest to him - that happened to be Ernie Bradberry, but he wisely kept quiet about what he had heard.

Mary-Lou offered Artie a dark glare in parting before she softened her expression as she turned to Mandy. "Deputy Jalinski, I'm hoping you can bring me up to speed now that our sheriff is unable to."

"I'm afraid I don't have much information either, Mrs. Skinner," Mandy said and broke out in a one-shouldered shrug. "From what I know, the creatures came from a wooden box that was discovered out at the old Silver Creek mining ghost town."

"A wooden box?  My half-brother Chester is a folklorist at the Morecomb Institute in Barton City, and I seem to recall he told me of an ancient practice of trapping evil house spirits in wooden reliquaries. Could it be such an artifact?"

"It could be. I can't say, Mrs. Skinner."

"Well, if it is, we might consider putting it in our town museum. All right… that's for later. But what were those creatures?  Who put them into the box in the first place?  And will they be back?"

"All valid questions that I can't answer, I'm afraid," Mandy said and shook her head slowly.

An awkward, but certainly highly concerned, silence fell over the group of people assembled near the Sheriff's Office. Mandy shifted the heavy Mossberg back to the first arm to distribute the weight a little better. Moira MacKay sighed before shuffling back to her bar and grill to survey the damage. Ernie scratched his full-sized sideburns with a puzzled look in his eyes, and Rodolfo just glanced from one person to the next. It was clear something needed to happen for the people to move on from the impasse they found themselves in, and that something soon arrived in the shape of Wynne Donohue.

Whistling merrily - in a horrendously off-key fashion - while her two happy dogs ran freely next to her, Wynne strolled back to the group with her trusty baseball bat over her shoulder and Mandy's tennis racket tucked under her arm. The whistling fizzled out and she lost a step at the sight of Moira walking away without acknowledging her presence; flipping burgers at the Bar & Grill was still the best job she had ever had.

Sighing over the lost opportunity, she carried on with a: "Howdy, all y'all good folks o' Goldsborah. Nice ta see ya, Wyatt. Good evenin', Mrs. Skinner. Say… is this he' shindig one o' them there private get-ta-gethahs or can anyone join the fun?  We sure done kicked some major crittah-buhtt tonight, yessirree!  Ugly li'l sombitches, too, wussen they?  Sure wus fun watchin' 'em explode like that when they got whacked!"

"Wynne," Mandy said, "Mrs. Skinner would like to know a little more about the box…"

"Haw, okay… yuh," Wynne said and pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Aw, it goes a li'l som'tin like this… las' Saturday evenin', me an' De-per-ty Mandy he' wus out at that there ol' minin' town Silvah Creek. We wus sent there 'cos a concerned citizen or some such had seen some weird, weird lights out in that there desert or some such… yuh, I think that 'bout be the reason we wus there…"

"Wynne…"

"Hold ya hosses pardner, I wus 'bout to skip ahead to the good stuff," Wynne said with a grin; having lost the thread, she needed to spend a few moments sorting out her thoughts before she could pick up where she had left off: "So while De-per-ty Mandy he' spoke to a buncha backpackahs from Californi-O or wherever they wus from, I went on a li'l explora-shun, yessirree. In Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse, the ol' saloon out there. Anyhows, to cut a long wiener in half, I kinda crashed through them there rotten floorboards an' found a real perdy-lookin' wooden box. I figgered it didden belong to nobodda since it wus underneath them floorboards, so I took it an' wrapped it in cloth an' brought it back home to mah trailah. Or our trailah, ta be precise."

Everybody present save for Mandy had to conceal a smirk over the long-winded and certainly colorful description. Mary-Lou Skinner furrowed her brow and assumed a concerned expression. "But how did the creatures escape the box, Miss Donohue?  And do you know what they were?"

"Aw, can't say nuttin' 'bout what they wus or nuttin', tho' I thought they kinda be lookin' like trolls or elves or some such… but as to how they escaped?  Weeelll… I guess I kinda took a li'l oil an' a screwdrivah to that there lid so it would come open. The darn thing wus rusted shut but I wanted to check if there wus anythin' in it like mebbe an old tur-"

Without anyone noticing - though his six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound frame was hard to miss - Artie Rains had returned to the group where he slammed his hands on his hips. "So you admit your guilt, Miss Dumb-ohue?" he said in a growly voice that proved he had never really forgiven Wynne for her part in his embarrassing incident at the big Fourth of July parade that had involved hot sauce and a public trash can.

As always, Wynne's stomach became upset at the mere sight of Artie Rains, and she needed to endure a sour burp that snuck up on her. "Now, ya see, Sheriff, that there perdy-lookin' box wus saposed to be a Christmas gift fer mah sweet, li'l De-per-ty Mandy he'… so I hadda see if there wus anythin' disgustin' inside. I mean, I coudden very well give her a dog-gone Christmas present that had a rattler or an old turd in it or some such, could I?"

"So you opened the lid to check… and the violent creatures came out," Artie Rains continued while nodding; he said it as a statement of fact rather than a further question.

By now, Wynne had begun to sense that the Sheriff had an ulterior motive to his line of questions. She barely had time to furrow her brow before he reached for his set of handcuffs from the rear of his utility belt.

"All right, Miss Donohue… turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"Uh-buh-whut?!  Lawwwwr-die, Ah ain't sure Ah be likin' the way ya said that, Sheriff!" Wynne croaked, staring at everyone else present - but mostly Mandy and Mary-Lou Skinner - for some kind of urgent help or at least verbal support.

It seemed all among the group had been stunned into submission because nobody - save for Blackie - reacted when Sheriff Rains went into action. After relieving a startled Wynne of her makeshift weapons, he grabbed hold of her denim sleeve, forced her around and slapped a pair of metal cuffs around her wrists.

"Sheriff Rains, you cannot be serious!" Mandy croaked, but she was interrupted by Blackie who jumped into an aggressive stance and began to growl from somewhere deep in her throat. Predictably, Goldie broke out into a whimper instead and dove for cover behind Mandy's legs - when the deperty sheriff moved away, Goldie hurriedly relocated to diving behind the far wider legs of Mary-Lou Skinner.

The familiar clicking noise of the locking mechanism was soon heard as the cuffs were tightened; then the sheriff yanked Wynne back around so he could talk to her face to face. "Wynne Donohue, I'm arresting you for disturbing the peace, for conspiracy to commit vandalism on public and private property-"

"Buht!" Wynne tried, but the sheriff cut her off.

"-for deliberately and willingly unleashing a potentially fatal threat to the town of Goldsboro and the State at large-"

"Dog-gone'it, Sheriff… will ya lissen ta me?!"

"Shut up, ya dumb broad!" Artie Rains roared as he gave Wynne a hard shove - all he succeeded in doing was to make Blackie break out in a barking frenzy. "I'm also arresting you for repeatedly breaking the leash law for your dogs and for having that rabid black furball there threaten an esteemed member of law enforcement!  Oh, and for parking your truck in a Goddamned!  No!  Parking!  Zone!"

"That ain't mah truck!  It's a Fohrd!  An' Ah wussen even drivin' the dang-blasted thing!" Wynne croaked as the sheriff made sure to hold up her wrists so her shoulder blades would be exposed to painful stress.

"It's my truck, Sheriff," Ernie squeaked, waving his hand in the air.

Artie Rains let out an amused grunt before he looked back at Wynne with an evil smile gracing his features. "Oh, I do beg your pardon, Miss Donohue. I take that last part back. But you're still gonna be locked up until you're old and gray!  Move it!  Now!  Over to the holding cells, you Goddamned waste of space!"

"Sheriff Rains!" Mary-Lou Skinner barked at a volume the rest of the people there had never heard her use. Even Artie Rains came to a halt to see what the woman from the Town Council wanted. "Tell me, do you actually want this town and your department to get slapped with a false imprisonment lawsuit?  If you are, just continue what you're doing!  I'm no lawyer, but I'm quite positive there's no way Miss Donohue can be held legally accountable for what happened here tonight. And even if you do insist on arresting her, it is entirely up to the county judge to decide whether or not Miss Donohue is guilty of the charges put against her. Not you!"

Artie Rains chewed long and hard on his chubby cheeks while he offered Mary-Lou a steely glare that had little impact. His firm grip around Wynne's arms didn't let up at first - even when Blackie began to snap at his boots and pantlegs - but then he seemed to reconsider his actions. "Very well, Councilwoman Skinner. But hear this, I will hold you personally responsible for any or all acts of vandalism… or terrorism, Goddammit!  That this woman will commit or cause in the future!  And mark my words, she will!"

"Noted, Sheriff," Mary-Lou Skinner said in a calm, but icy, voice.

Artie Rains let out an annoyed grunt as he unlocked the handcuffs and gave Wynne such a hard shove in the back that she needed to take several fumbling steps to regain her balance. Then he seemed to remember something, no doubt aided by the presence of the black guard dog literally snapping at his heels: "You can go. But I'm still fining you sixty dollars for breaking the leash law. Thirty dollars for each dog. The fine is to be paid in cash. If you cannot pay in cash, I have a real nice holding cell where you can spend the night until your bosom buddy Manly there… oh, I beg your pardon, Deputy Jalinski… pays the fine." - He pointed his thumb at Mandy while using the derogatory term he had often used when she had been new in Goldsboro.

Mandy drew another sharp breath but abstained from making a comment. Blackie took a brief pause from barking to see if anything would happen among the humans; they remained quiet so she went back to growling at the tall, mean fellow.

Wynne shook her head before she adjusted her beloved cowboy hat that had been knocked askew. "I ain't got no sixty bucks, Sheriff. Hell, I ain't even got three bucks ta buy a dog-gone soda pop!" she said and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets in case Artie Rains would get handcuff-happy all over again.

"Well, in that case, Miss Donohue," Sheriff Rains said with a grin that was far too joyful for the occasion, "you leave me no option but to arrest you for vagrancy. Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"Ya abso-loote-ly have gotta be shittin' me!  Fer cryin' out loud, Sheriff!" Wynne whined, but Artie Rains had already reached for his cuffs - the gesture made Blackie jump into another barking frenzy which in turn made the sheriff kick out after her.

Before he could act on his threat of arresting Wynne again, Mary-Lou Skinner slapped three twenty-dollar bills into his palm. "There you go, Sheriff. Sixty dollars. I'll be taking Miss Donohue with me now, if that's all right with you."

Artie chewed on his lips and cheeks a little more but eventually folded up the bills and stuck them into his breast pocket. "Oh, I thank you, Councilwoman Skinner. Miss Vaporhead here is free to go. Preferably somewhere far, far away from where I am."

"That ain't gonn' be no problem, nosirree!" Wynne mumbled. She cast a glance at Mandy whose tomato-red face proved she was hauling an entire wagonload of nitroglycerine that could go off at any moment.

Ernie offered Wynne a nervous smile as he reached into his shirt pocket to find two twenty-dollar bills that he gave Mary-Lou Skinner to compensate her for her expenses. As soon as the sheriff turned around and began to walk back to the office - grinding his jaw all the way there - Rodolfo Gonzalez added another twenty.

"Thanks, fellas… an' you, Missus Skinnah. I owe y'all big time," Wynne said and let out a sigh of relief. Mandy was still too hot under the collar to speak without swearing, so Wynne moved over to Ernie, Rodolfo and Mary-Lou Skinner to shake their hands while her partner's temper cooled off. "Lawrdie, I 'preciate y'all savin' mah ass like that. I really 'preciate it, an' I ain't gonn' ferget it."

Blackie and Goldie demanded more than a mere handshake, so Wynne crouched down to pull her dogs into a furious rubbing session that made them wag their tails and let out plenty of merry woof'ing. "Fellas," Wynne said as she looked up at her friends and acquaintances, "if there's anythin' I can do fer y'all, jus' lemme know an' I'll be there in a flash. An' that goes fer you too, there, Wyatt, tho' ya coudden be bothered ta cough up ta pay mah fine."

"I only had a hundred-dollar bill on me, Wynne," Wyatt Elliott said like it would explain it all.

"Izzat a fact?  Ah sure do hate when that happens, yessirree," Wynne said and let out a chuckle as she got to her feet. "All-righty, then. De-per-ty Mandy… I got an ideah. I ain't fully sure it's a good ideah when y'all be thinkin' 'bout the crap that usually happens when I get ideahs, mind ya, but I deffa-net-ly got an ideah. How 'bout you an' me drove out to that there Silvah Creek ghost town an' dumped that dad-gummit box in that there hole in the floor where I done found it?"

Mandy finally released the breath she had been holding after Sheriff Rains' offensive behavior. She even managed to put a smile on her face which was no mean feat considering the violent storm that raged within her. "Sounds good to me, Wynne," she croaked. "Mrs. Skinner, I'm afraid that box is just too dangerous to keep in the town museum. You saw what those creatures did… they might be back."

Mary-Lou let out a "Hmmm…" before she nodded. "All right. Under these circumstances, I concede the point, Deputy Jalinski."

"Very well," Mandy said as she turned back to Wynne. "You've got a deal. I just need to lock up the Mossberg so we won't have any further accidents tonight."

"Lawrdie, no. Don't want no accidents, nosirree… that would put a nasty crimp on mah plans fer the rest o' Halloween night," Wynne said with a grin that made Ernie, Rodolfo and Wyatt blush - Mary-Lou Skinner just chuckled.

Ernie Bradberry suddenly remembered something that Moira MacKay had told him, and he licked his lips in anticipation of the free beer the owner of Goldsboro's best Bar & Grill had put up as reward to all those who would come by and help clean up the mess - and after that, there was bound to be plenty of work available elsewhere around town. "Hey Wynne, I got an idea too… if ya swing by bright and early tomorrow, I'll bet Mrs. Peabody will hire anyone who's got two hands to help her get the boardin' house back in shape. There might be a buck or two in it for us."

"Oooh, that's one helluva good ideah there, Ernie!" Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat at her neighbor. "Lawrdie, that thought ain't nevah even crossed mah mind!"

"Yeah. Anyway, I'll be busy here for a while, so go ahead and use my truck. But please… make sure it stays in one piece, will ya?"

"Aw, shoot… I dunno, friend. Ah mean, me drivin' a Fohrd an' all…"

"Beats walkin' home…"

"Now, I sapose that's true. Haw, much obliged, Ernie!" Wynne said and caught the key fob that her friend pitched to her. "Yessirree, Fohrd or not, I'mma-gonn' pampah it like it wus mah own… De-per-ty Mandy?"

"Go ahead and start it," Mandy said and moved the heavy Mossberg to her other arm. "I'm just gonna put this in the gun cabinet and I'll be ready. My shift was over long ago, and somehow I don't think Sheriff Rains will be too unhappy to see me leave."

-*-*-*-

"Lawwwwr-die!  Ernie's truck sure do gotta'lotta git-up-an'-go, don't it?" Wynne said as she and Mandy drove south on the State Route to get back to Silver Creek and Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse. "I swear, if I evah get mahself a new job or win the dag-nabbin' State lottery or som'tin, I'mma-gonn' buy mahself a brand new truck, yessirree!  O' course, ain't no way it's gonna be a Fohrd, but ya know… I deffa-net-ly gonna buy mahself a new truck. Yessir."

Being behind the wheel of a Blue Oval vehicle was simply too much for a dyed-in-the-wool General Motors gal like Wynne, so Mandy had assumed control of the steering wheel. It left Wynne sitting in the middle with Blackie and Goldie next to her on the right; the dogs were locked in a friendly doggie-competition to get the window seat. The lateness of the day meant that everything they drove past was obscured by darkness so there wasn't anything to look at, but the principle of being in the best seat in the house was worth jockeying for.

Chuckling, the deputy reached down to claw Wynne's long, denim-clad thigh. "I hear you. And I want to thank you for thinking about my Christmas present already. It's really a beautiful box… on the outside."

"But it sure as stinky-poo ain't perdy on the inside!  Lawrdie, I ain't nevah gonn' ferget them there buhtt-ugly crittahs fer as long as I live. Hoa-brothah, they sure be some nasty, li'l sombitches, that's fer dang sure."

The wooden box in question had been placed down the far end of the truck's bed. It had been tightly secured by a rope, then wrapped in old rags, a plastic bag and finally a canvas duffel bag from the Spartan Wings sports goods store to make sure that the lid would stay firmly in place.

To warn future generations that it would be best for everyone if the box was left alone for all eternity, Mandy had written a note explaining the situation in colorful detail. After it had been signed by senior town officials Mary-Lou Skinner and a severely grumbling Artie Rains, it had been sticky-taped onto the canvas bag.

"Now, I do bah-lieve this he' dirt road is where we needa' make a turn… les'hope it ain't gonn' be no turn for the worse, nosirree!" Wynne said and pointed through the windshield. Mandy soon drove off the State Route blacktop and onto the rough, uneven wagon trail that would take them to the Silver Creek mining ghost town.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Wynne dusted off her hands after she had tried to rearrange the rotten floorboards so it didn't appear they had ever been disturbed. She leaned back on her denim-clad thighs to observe her handiwork. "That oughtta take care o' that there dang-blasted thing. It ain't perfect or nuttin', but I betcha it'll hold fer another couple-a hundred years. Nobodda comes out he', anyhows. Well, 'cept them there backpackahs, obvi'sly. But them good folks ain't nevah gonn' hear 'bout it. Lawrdie, I sure do hope we done seen the last o' them there skunk-mean crittahs… and crittahs in general. Haw, did I ever men-shun how much I hate Halloween?"

"You may have, yeah… once or twice," Mandy said with a chuckle. She held up a powerful flashlight that had helped Wynne find the jagged hole she had made in the floorboards the week before, but now they were done, she turned off the light which allowed the spooky darkness to reclaim Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse once more. "I guess that wraps it up here. Literally."

"Haw, yeah. C'mon, De-per-ty… it's high time we done drove home."

"Speaking of which… how much did those creatures destroy when they escaped the box?" Mandy said on their way back to Ernie's truck. "I mean, just so I won't get a coronary stepping into the living room…"

Wynne shrugged. "The sombitches did wreck some. Buncha stuff got bad knocks, other stuff less so. Ain't none o' that there real important stuff like our family photos or the heirlooms got whacked or nuttin'. There's a whole buncha cee-dees all ovah the floor, there, but I think they be fihne generally speakin'. One o' them there flowah pots wus knocked ovah, but it didden crack or nuttin'. The teevee made it through in one piece, too. Don't think no windas were busted, but I didden have time to check."

"Damn."

"I'm guessin' it oughtta take us an hour or so ta clean up. Then we can go for a li'l quality time. That low-down piece o' meanness Artie Rains disturbed our last snugglin', but he ain't gonn' do that this time, nosirree!"

Blackie and Goldie greeted their owners with a series of happy woofs and plenty of wagging tails. The two dogs were given solid rubdowns before Mandy slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine. Although Ernie's new Ford F350 was part of the Super Duty range, it was far nimbler than the lumbering wrecker truck they had driven the last time they had been there, so they were headed back to the two-lane State Route in no time.

The new truck's suspension was a great deal better as well so it was a far smoother ride across the uneven, rutty wagon trail. Even so, Wynne, Mandy and the two dogs were given a good shaking, and all sorts of rattles and bangs could be heard from the undercarriage as the wide wheels grappled for grip on the sandy trail.

---

Halfway home, Wynne Donohue's legendary bad luck struck again as a little issue suddenly developed. The little issue soon turned into a potential problem, then a real problem, and then a full-scale calamity of unrivaled proportions - and it all started when an amber light lit up on the dashboard. "What in Sam Hill is that there now?" Wynne said, leaning across to tap a finger against the particular gauge.

The words had barely left her lips before the engine began to cough. The coughing turned to proper spluttering before the truck gave up the ghost altogether and rolled to a silent halt on the hard shoulder of the State Route.

Mandy let go of the steering wheel to slap a hand over her eyes. Blackie let out a puzzled woof? and Goldie whimpered and dove for cover down in the footwell where she knew no harm could come to her. The only one of the four who didn't seem too bothered about the most recent disaster was Wynne whose ear-to-ear grin proved she knew more than she let on.

"No gas?" Mandy mumbled between her fingers.

"No gas. Com-pa-lete-ly dry. Ah guess dear, old Sheriff Rains can't put me in that there slammah o' his any time soon, huh?  Lawrdie, what a cryin' shame," Wynne said as she moved her beloved cowboy hat forward to look her sexiest. "Now, what's a swell pair o' gals ta do?  Stranded out he' in the middle of dang-blasted nowhere. Only ourselves an' our dawggies fer company. We bettah snuggle up real tight-like to preserve our body heat, dontchaknow."

"Did you plan this?  Be honest now!"

Wynne pushed her hat back from her brow so she had room to shoot her partner a wide, sexy grin that was accompanied by a few winks. "Plan it?  Why, De-per-ty Mandy!  Ah sure didden expect such a nice gal like yerself ta think such naughty thoughts 'bout a nice gal like me!"

"You did plan it!  I don't believe it!" Mandy said and broke out in a laugh.

"Well, it ain't mah truck so I didden ack-chew-ly plan it as such, but I kinda had a gandah at that there gas gauge when we done drove the other way, so… yuh, I may ha'planned it."

"We're five miles from home!"

"Closah to six. But there I wus, thinkin'… it's Halloween, an' Artie Rains may call at any moment 'bout another riot or some such or send that there Delta Force out to get me or som'tin… but with us way the hell out he', there ain't noooo way he can find us right now, an' that leaves plenty o' snugglin'-time fer the likes o' you an' me… yessirree!"

Grinning, Mandy offered her partner a few silent looks before she slid closer and wrapped an arm around the denim-clad waist. They were soon engaged in a little quality time just sitting side by side while reflecting on all the bad things that had happened once more. "Still… I don't particularly feel like walking five or six miles in these boots… or spending the night here, for that matter. Body heat or not, it's going to be cold," she said quietly as she leaned her head against Wynne's shoulder.

"Once we run outta kisses ta share, we don't hafta spend a minute longah he' than we wanna," Wynne whispered as she leaned down to offer Mandy a kiss on the temple - the first of many. " 'Cos Ernie done tole me this he' perdy new Fohrd truck o' his got one o' them there dual-tank setups. All we hafta do is ta switch ovah to the secondary pump an' the whole durn thing'll start up again. Ain't that clevah?"

"Oh-ho, Wynne Donohue… you no-good rascal!" Mandy said and broke out in a husky laugh.

"Ah thought that wus whatcha loved the most 'bout me," Wynne replied, but that was all the talking they had time for before their lips and mouths became otherwise engaged.

---

Underneath the silver-and-metallic-blue Ford F350, the last five droplets of gasoline dripped out of the supposedly full secondary gas tank to form a small glistening patch on the blacktop. A mile-long wet line ran back along the State Route to the uneven wagon trail - a sharp piece of gravel had punched a hole in the underside of the tank after having been kicked up by a tire, but everyone had been too busy holding on to notice that particular small bang among many.

Blackie and Goldie's sensitive canine noses picked up the scent of the gasoline almost at once, but after sharing a brief sequence of muted woofs, they decided to let their owners have their little private moment first - after all, there would be plenty of time for dramas later…

*

*

THE END

 

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